For years, I was a complicated patient that no one could figure out- but was told to follow up with psych. I bounced between specialists, collected “idiopathic” misdiagnoses, and endured the shame of being dismissed as dramatic, lazy, or “always sick.” My body was screaming, but I didn’t yet have the language to translate its cries into something the medical world would hear.
Then came one conversation.
At a medical conference, a stranger looked at me—not just at my chart, not just at my scattered list of symptoms, but at me. She saw the child sick for the first time at the age of four; the teenager told “oh, it’s just growing pains” ; the young adult juggling hives, eczema, embarrassing GI bleeding, and unexplainable dizziness.
She gave me words, language, and hope.
Because of her, I had the vocabulary to advocate for the right tests. Because of her, I found a doctor who recognized my condition, a clinical trial that fit my reality, and treatments that finally brought relief.
There’s still no cure. I’m rare. But now I have something I never had before: a name for what I live with. Proof that I am not “too much,” not “lazy,” not “making it up.” Proof that I am not a hypochondriac, and more importantly, proof that I’m not alone.
That single conversation didn’t just unlock my diagnosis and continue my journey down the right path. It healed a part of me that had stopped believing I could ever be understood.
And for that, I will spend the rest of my life listening- to literally anyone who has a strange medical episode they want to share, to anyone telling me about a doctor who dismissed their pain, to anyone who needs to feel heard. for anyone who struggles with vulnerable and difficult to share symptoms. I am dedicated to not only putting others first, but advocating for clearer food package labeling, medication labeling, and trying my best to pay it forward every chance I get… in hopes I can be at least an ounce as helpful as she was to me.
Whether it’s in an elevator, a women’s bathroom, the lobby of a JW Marriott, or the middle of an airport terminal, there will never be a moment too inconvenient to stop and listen to someone who needs to be heard.
Because I know what it’s like to be dismissed.
I know what it’s like to feel “too much,” to wonder if you’re burdening someone with your story, to be told “hey, no trauma dumping” when all you want is to be understood in a doctor’s office.
I now know what it’s like when someone finally takes the time.
This woman sat with me. She listened without rushing, without doubting, without minimizing. She walked with me through every confusing, painful chapter of my medical history and helped me piece together the puzzle.
Because she gave me that gift, I now have something I once thought impossible: peace. Knowledge. Relief. A name. A correct diagnosis.
And for the rest of my life, I will carry her example with me.
I will never stop making space for someone who needs to be seen, because I know, in the deepest part of me, how much it can change everything.
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