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There’s a specific kind of heartbreak that comes when a doctor looks at you—not with compassion, not with curiosity, not with hope—but with defeat. That moment when you realize they’ve silently decided you’re too much, too complicated, or worse, not worth figuring out.

It’s the second you start talking about symptoms they can’t see on a chart. The moment you mention you’ve been doing your own research. Or when you dare to bring up the connections you’ve found between your chronic pain, fatigue, gut issues, and brain fog. That subtle shift in their tone, the clipped words, the passive-aggressive sighs, or just outright rudeness—like your existence is inconvenient.

And if you’re a woman? Oh, love… it’s often tenfold.

You get labeled as anxious, dramatic, hysterical. Gods forbid you’re neurodivergent or already have a mental health diagnosis—then it’s almost a given that your symptoms will be chalked up to “stress” or “psychosomatic.”

But one of the most soul-crushing moments? When they look you dead in the eyes and try to gaslight you out of your own medical history.

“You don’t have XYZ. It doesn’t present like that.”
“It’s not typical, so it must not be that.”
“Your previous positive tests? Irrelevant now.”

Excuse me?

How does that make sense?

How do you go from testing positive multiple times, showing clear signs and symptoms, living through it—only to be told it has nothing to do with anything now?

How can a doctor say with a straight face, “You don’t have an autoimmune condition,” but in the same breath reassure you that the condition you don’t have is “in remission”?
I’m sorry, what?

It’s disorienting. It’s maddening. It’s gaslighting, plain and simple.

And then… today happened.

I went to MedStop because something felt off. My hand was swollen, painful, and just wrong. After everything I’ve already been through, part of me almost didn’t go. I was so tired of not being believed.

But I went. And the doctor today? She listened.

Diagnosis: two blood clots in my hand. Superficial, yes—but clots nonetheless. Real. Present. Concerning. The doctor explained that while they may seem minor, such clots can lead to complications if not monitored closely. I’m being put on antibiotics in case infection played a role, which adds another layer of worry to the situation. To manage my condition effectively, I’ve been advised to increase my aspirin intake to help thin the blood and prevent further clotting. Additionally, I’ve been instructed to use methods such as heat, compression, and elevation to alleviate any swelling or discomfort. It’s a lot to take in, and I can’t help but feel a mix of anxiety and determination as I navigate the next steps toward recovery.

But here’s the kicker:
She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Yes, you have Antiphospholipid Syndrome. It does not go away. It is autoimmune.” Her words hung in the air like a heavy fog, each syllable sinking into my consciousness and stirring a whirlwind of emotions. I found myself grappling with the implications of her diagnosis—an invisible enemy lurking within my body, capable of disrupting the most mundane aspects of my life. As I absorbed this information, a sense of isolation washed over me; I felt as though I was being thrust into a world that few understood, where every choice and action would now be shadowed by the reality of living with a chronic condition.

Validation.
Not because I needed to hear I was “sick,” but because I needed someone to acknowledge that this isn’t something we dreamed up 4 years ago, that I am not crazy or imagining things.There’s a deep grief in that space. A loneliness that eats at your resolve.

When medical professional looks at just numbers and not you as a patient…You start to wonder:
“Am I making this up?”
“Maybe it is all in my head…”
“Should I just stop trying?”

But here’s the truth I need you to hold onto, and the reminder I whisper to myself when I’m in that pit:

✨ You are not too much.
✨ Your intuition is valid.
✨ Your lived experience matters.
✨ You deserve answers and compassionate care.

We have every right to advocate for our bodies. To question the system. To seek out second, third, fourth opinions. To research and read and talk about our health without shame. This isn’t obsession—it’s survival. Especially when so many of us have complex, overlapping conditions that don’t follow the “rules” of a medical textbook.

If you’re feeling lost, dismissed, or defeated—know you’re not alone. So many of us are walking this path. We are the women they tried to silence. The ones who turned our pain into power. The ones who kept asking questions, kept fighting, and kept showing up—even when it felt impossible.

Your body is sacred. Your voice is a weapon. And your story could be the torch someone else needs to light their own path.

Don’t let them convince you to shrink. Keep showing up for yourself.

Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B