The Power of Being Heard- A Woman’s Story of Finding her Voice Amid Medical and Infertility Struggles
- Guest Blogger
- Aug 14
- 4 min read
"You're only 27."
"You're healthy."
"You look great."
"You just ran a marathon."
"Your numbers look great."
"Your triglycerides are a little high. Let's add Omega-3s and a few more workouts."
"Your Vitamin D is low. Just spend a little more time outside."
"Your thyroid looks great."
"Your iron levels are normal."
"Painful periods are just part of being a woman."
"You're probably just stressed."
"It's all in your head."
I heard some version of these words for years.
They came from doctors. Specialists. People who genuinely believed they were reassuring me.
But every reassuring comment made me question my instincts a little more.
Because while every test seemed to say I was "fine," my body kept telling me something wasn't adding up.
Not because I thought something was terribly wrong.
Not because I was hoping for a diagnosis.
I simply knew my body well enough to recognize that something wasn’t right.
Yet every appointment seemed to end the same way: reassurance based on my age, my appearance, and my lifestyle rather than how I actually felt.
Over the last three years, I became a full-time investigator of my own health.
I've seen my primary care physician, multiple gynecologists, and various cardiologists. I've been evaluated for POTS (POTS: Causes, Symptoms, Diagnosis & Treatment), worn a heart monitor, had countless blood draws, tested my thyroid, monitored my vitamin levels, revisited therapy, started acupuncture, changed my exercise routine, bought an Oura Ring (Oura Ring. Smart Ring for Fitness, Stress, Sleep & Health.), downloaded more health apps than I can count, and tried to follow every recommendation that was given to me.
Every appointment became another breadcrumb. Another blood draw. Another specialist. Another explanation that almost fit, but never quite explained the whole picture.
One of the hardest parts wasn't the testing.
It was beginning to wonder if I was imagining it all.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe I was just anxious.
Maybe everyone else knew my body better than I did.
One doctor even compared my heart to his seven-year-old son's, telling me I had one of the healthiest hearts he'd seen.
I know those comments were intended to reassure me.
Instead, they made me feel invisible.
Because reassurance without curiosity doesn't feel like care.
It feels like dismissal.
Then life became even more complicated.
My husband and I decided we were ready to start trying for a baby.
The timing couldn't have been more ironic.
I had spent these past few years trying to understand my own health before becoming pregnant because I wanted to enter motherhood as the healthiest version of myself possible.
Instead, those two journeys collided.
While advocating for answers about my own body, I was simultaneously learning how emotionally taxing trying to conceive can be.
No one really prepares you for the waiting.
The hope.
The disappointment.
The wondering whether every symptom means something, or nothing at all.
Every month, I found myself asking two different questions.
Why do I feel this way?
Can my body do this?
Those questions became impossible to separate.
Despite being told I was young and should simply continue trying, I found myself sitting across from a fertility specialist.
This experience changed how I think about healthcare.
She reviewed every lab.
She listened.
She asked thoughtful follow-up questions.
Not just about my numbers.
About me.
About how I actually felt.
Then she said something I had never heard in a doctor's office before.
"Do you want to go on this journey together?"
Together.
One word.
One sentence.
And somehow it changed everything.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I had to convince someone that my experience was real.
I had a partner.
Minutes later we walked across the hall for an ultrasound.
Within seconds, she found what years of appointments had missed: “Polycystic Ovary Syndrome” (PCOS), that is now called ”Polyendocrine metabolic ovarian syndrome” (PMOS) Polyendocrine metabolic ovarian syndrome (PMOS) - Symptoms and causes - Mayo Clinic.
I didn't cry.
I smiled.
Not because I wanted a diagnosis. But because I finally had an answer.
I wasn't making it up. I wasn't overreacting. I wasn't crazy.
My body had been trying to tell me something all along.
PCOS/PMOS affects millions of women around the world and often looks different from one woman to the next.
Some women have irregular periods.
Some don't.
Some struggle with weight.
Others don't.
Some spend years searching for answers because they don't fit the picture people expect.
I happened to be one of them.
I don't blame the doctors who missed it. Medicine is complex, and no physician has every answer.
My story isn't about proving anyone wrong.
It's about what became possible when someone slowed down long enough to listen, connect the dots, and invite me into the process.
Today, I have a plan.
I have hope.
I have a physician who works alongside me instead of talking over me.
But perhaps the greatest gift wasn't the diagnosis itself.
It was finally feeling heard.
For years, I confused reassurance with care.
Now I understand they're not the same thing.
The best healthcare isn't built on fear.
It isn't built on blind reassurance either.
It's built on partnership. It looks like a provider who listens before they assume.
It looks like asking, "How do you feel?" instead of only asking what the lab work says.
It looks like making decisions together, grounded in both medical evidence and the lived experience of the person sitting across from you.
If something feels off, don't be afraid to ask another question.
Seek a second opinion when you need one.
Learn about your body. Stay curious.
Advocate for yourself with humility and persistence.
Most importantly, remember that you deserve to be heard.
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