How I Advocate for Myself Now.

There was a time when I sat quietly in exam rooms, nodding along as a doctor spoke over me, using words I didn’t understand, brushing off symptoms I knew were real. I didn’t ask too many questions. I didn’t want to be “dramatic” or “difficult” or labeled as anxious. I wanted to be a “good” patient. The kind they took seriously. Spoiler: that didn’t work.

The moment that changed everything for me was when I was 17 years old — scared, confused, and in pain — and a doctor decided to perform a uterine biopsy on me, unmedicated, in a regular exam room with zero preparation for what that would actually feel like. No anesthesia. No pain meds. No compassion, really. Just sterile gloves and clinical indifference. And I’ll say it honestly: it was one of the most traumatic, painful experiences of my life.

I left that appointment physically shaking and emotionally wrecked. No one warned me. No one paused to explain. No one told me I could say no. I didn’t even realize I could say no.

After that day, something in me shifted. I promised myself that no one would ever put me through something like that again without my voice being heard. If I was going to live in this body — especially one with chronic issues, infertility, and eventually a hysterectomy — then I needed to be its loudest advocate.

Now, I walk into every doctor’s office differently. Stronger. Louder. A little more stubborn, a lot more informed. So here are the lessons I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) about how to advocate for yourself when the system tries to silence you:

I don’t shrink myself to make them comfortable. If something feels off, I say it. If I’m in pain, I don’t downplay it. I’ve learned that minimizing symptoms doesn’t get you better care — it just delays answers. Your voice deserves to take up space in that room.

I ask every question I want — even if I feel “annoying.” I used to nod like I understood everything just to get out of the room faster. Now I ask, “Can you explain that in simpler terms?” or “What does that mean for me long-term?” If they get annoyed, that’s on them. This is my body, my life, and I won’t apologize for wanting clarity.

I keep notes and bring them in. I write everything down now — symptoms, questions, emotional changes, dates. It’s not dramatic, it’s smart. When you're overwhelmed, it’s easy to forget what you meant to say. Notes help me stay grounded, especially on hard days when brain fog takes over.

I remind myself that they work for me. That might sound bold, but it’s true. I am paying for this care — with my money, my time, my vulnerability. I don’t owe them anything but honesty. And if a provider makes me feel dismissed, talked down to, or brushed off? I leave. I find someone who listens. I deserve better.

I trust my gut more than their degree. There have been times when I knew something was wrong but let a doctor convince me otherwise. I won’t do that again. If I feel like something is off, I speak up. I follow up. I keep looking until someone takes it seriously. I’ve learned the hard way that ignoring your body for the sake of politeness can cost you deeply.

I bring someone with me when I need backup. Whether it’s for emotional support or just an extra set of ears, having someone else in the room can help you feel less alone. Sometimes just knowing someone’s in your corner makes all the difference.

I’m allowed to switch doctors — and I have. You’re not “starting over.” You’re continuing your journey with someone who might actually help. A second opinion isn’t betrayal — it’s protection. If a doctor makes you feel crazy, dramatic, or difficult for advocating for yourself, they’re not the right fit.

That biopsy at 17 should have never happened the way it did. But in a painful way, it taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned: your body deserves kindness, your pain deserves respect, and your voice deserves to be heard.

Now, I speak up — not because it’s easy, but because I know how it feels when you don’t.

And if you’re reading this, still learning how to be that voice for yourself — I see you. You’re doing better than you think. And you deserve doctors who listen, care, and ask for your consent every single time.