From Dismissed to Emergency: The Story I Almost Didn’t Get to Tell

I went from being told nothing looked unusual… to the ER, still fighting to be seen, heard, and taken seriously.

I lost 40 pounds in a matter of weeks. No dieting. No drastic exercise routine. No intention behind it at all. And for a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe it made sense.

The studio had just opened. I was moving more, on my feet, constantly creating, hosting, holding space. It felt like a natural shift. A byproduct of a new rhythm.

But then it didn’t stop.

The weight kept dropping.

Clothes that once fit comfortably began to hang.

And instead of feeling lighter in a good way… I felt like I was slowly disappearing.

So naturally, I tried to correct it. I leaned into eating more, with intention and consistency. I told myself, "Just stabilize it… just find your balance again".

But nothing changed. If anything, my body felt like it was slipping further away from me.

By then, three months had passed, and I was terrified. Nothing I tried made a difference. I sought help. Not once, not casually. I was seeing medical professionals regularly, and at one point, I was going to the emergency room nearly every month.

And each time… I left with the same answer.

“You’re anemic.”

“You have fibroids.”

“It’s normal to feel tired with your condition.”

“Eat more. Take your iron. Rest more.”

And while those answers were not unfamiliar to me, they didn’t explain what I was experiencing.

I had been dealing with fibroids for quite some time and had done what I could to manage my symptoms, but I knew this was more than that. Something was happening inside of me that I couldn’t see, but I could feel it. That’s why I kept going back, hoping that a CT scan or an ultrasound might uncover what I couldn’t. Something in me wouldn’t let it go.

But as soon as they opened my chart and saw my history, it felt like the story had already been written for me. Case open. Case closed.

And everything I said after that… barely mattered.

I know I’m not alone in this.

I’ve had conversations with friends, strangers, family members—women especially—who have walked into appointments knowing, feeling, something was off…only to leave questioning themselves instead.

The tests say one thing.

The doctor says one thing.

But deep down… You know there has to be more.

And for some, the lucky ones, it takes months. Sometimes years. Until one day, someone finally confirms what you suspected all along…and you get to exhale.

I wasn’t there yet.

Because while I was being told to rest, take my iron and eat more… my body was getting louder. Simple things started to feel… not so simple. Brushing my teeth felt like a task. Walking across the room required effort. Standing in the shower became something I had to prepare for. And slowly, in ways I didn’t fully realize at first, I was losing my independence and relying more and more on Dylan (my partner) for even the smallest things.

Breathing changed too. Even the smallest movement had me catching my breath like I had just run a marathon. There was no recovery—just a constant, quiet struggle for air. And then there were moments my legs wouldn’t move. As if the signal from my brain simply wasn’t landing. I would stand there, trying to will my body forward… sometimes even saying it out loud: “Take a step!”

Until one day… I couldn’t anymore.

I ended up in the emergency room one more time on International Women's Day, of all days, unable to walk, lightheaded, and completely drained. And even that night, I wasn’t expecting answers or a way out of what felt like a living nightmare. I was almost certain I would be dismissed again.

The triage note read: menstrual problems, which was nowhere near what I had described.

One leg was nearly twice the size of the other. I couldn’t breathe properly. I was too weak to walk. And yet… that’s what made it onto my chart.

I find myself returning to that moment more often than I’d like to admit. Wondering how easily the story could have gone the same way it always had.

What if the doctor who saw me that night had followed the same pattern? What if he had stopped at my history?

But he didn’t.

Somewhere between waiting and being seen.

By the time I was finally brought into a room, hours had already passed. The kind of waiting that leaves you suspended between exhaustion and hope.

Dylan sat beside me, steady as always. We spoke quietly, trying to make sense of it all. Of how many times we had been here before. Of how many hours we had spent each time, only to return home feeling no better than when we arrived.

At one point, we even found ourselves wondering what we could eat, as if grounding ourselves in something normal might make the moment feel less heavy.

But nothing about it felt normal.

I sat there, hospital band on my wrist, one leg visibly swollen, trying to catch my breath in a room that felt both too quiet and too loud at the same time.

And then I heard my name called.

What followed, I didn’t expect, not after everything I had grown accustomed to.

The doctor didn’t rush. He didn’t lead with my chart. There was a look of concern on his face, not the neutral expression I had grown used to. As he glanced over my file, I caught myself thinking, “Here we go again.”

But then something shifted.

He looked up from the chart and asked me to share, in my own words, what I felt was happening. He acknowledged the CT scans, ultrasounds, and blood work, and what each suggested, but instead of taking it at face value, he paused.

He listened as I shared everything the triage hadn’t captured—a fuller account of how my symptoms had progressed since October of last year. The steady decline. The repeated visits to the ER. And why had I come in again, even though I expected nothing different.

He listened without interrupting, occasionally glancing at my file, as though connecting what I was saying to what was already written.

And then he said something that shifted everything.

“I think we’re missing something.”

And he was right.

To this day, I find myself wondering… what made the difference?

Was it that he took an extra moment? That he chose curiosity over assumption? That he saw me, not just my chart?

Or was it something else entirely?

I don’t have a clean answer.

But I do know this:

Sometimes the signs are quiet at first. Easy to rationalize. Easy to tuck away under “it’s probably nothing.” But your body knows. It always knows.

And when something feels off—truly off—it deserves more than a surface-level answer.

It deserves someone willing to look again. To ask one more question. To listen a little longer.

And most importantly… it deserves you to trust yourself.

Because sometimes, the most important voice in your care… is your own.

And sometimes…being seen—truly seen—can save your life.

When your voice becomes part of your care, it changes everything.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for taking the time to sit with my story. It’s not an easy one for me to share, but it felt important to.

Because so often, we feel something is off… and still find ways to quiet that inner voice. We begin to question ourselves. We accept answers that sound complete, but are not followed by the kind of curiosity, investigation, and genuine human care our bodies are asking for.

For me, the difference was a doctor who chose to see me beyond my chart and my diagnosis. His genuine care for my well-being restored something I didn’t realize I had lost over the past few months: my trust in healthcare professionals and in being seen within my own care.

It was a busy night in the ER, but you wouldn’t have known it from the way he showed up in that room. He made the hours of waiting feel worth it.

And it left me wondering what made the difference.

Was it that we shared the same skin tone? I can’t help but wonder if that played a role in how I was seen.

Or was it simply that he was a doctor who cared deeply for his patients—someone who sought not just to treat, but to offer relief, and who took the time to truly see the person seated across from him, not as a case, but as a human being?

There was something in the way he listened, in the way he saw me, that felt deeply human.

For you, it might look different.

It might be a family member who listens closely. A friend who notices the change. The moment you decide to finally book that appointment. Or the day you look back at your own patterns and trust what they’re telling you.

Whatever it is, don’t silence it.

Your voice matters in your care. Your experience matters. What you feel in your body matters.

And sometimes, the turning point is simply this: choosing to trust your instincts, and asking to be truly seen as a whole person, not just a chart, not just a diagnosis.