Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

After my separation, I had a modest savings account—something I hoped would give me a sense of security as I rebuilt my life. Instead, it became my lifeline…in a way.

I spent nearly $20,000 trying to figure out why my health kept failing. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars.

Every penny of it was spent chasing the hope that this test, this specialist, this supplement would finally give me answers.

The Costs of Chasing Answers

Some of it went to things insurance wouldn’t touch—mail-in allergy tests, functional medicine consults, out-of-network psychiatrists who actually saw me as a whole person, not just a set of symptoms. I bought supplements that helped me function: magnesium, vitamin D, HPA Assist for my adrenal insufficiency. I paid out of pocket for Zofran so I wouldn’t spend hours throwing up during flare-ups (before my insurance finally deemed it necessary and covered most of it.) I budgeted monthly IV hydration and vitamin infusions just to get through the month.

Those infusions gave me just enough of a boost to get by while I was still working. But I haven’t worked in almost a year now, and everything has changed.

There’s no more budget for infusions. No more room for the supplements that kept me upright. Insurance is covering less and less of things previously covered. No coverage for the psychiatrist/functional medicine RN who actually listens—who’s not just helping me navigate my trauma, but also helping me chase the elusive concept of quality of life. And I’m terrified that I’m going to lose access to them too.

The Struggle for Diagnosis and Answers

The closest I came to a concrete answer was adrenal insufficiency, which is in remission now… but my body still isn’t okay. I’m still sick. Still fainting. Still living inside this foggy, fight-or-flight, slow-motion burnout state. Maybe it’s POTS. Maybe it’s MCAS. Maybe it’s “just” the result of a lifetime of trauma rewriting my nervous system (aka CPTSD). Whatever it is, it’s real.

And you know what makes it worse?

I feel like I have tried everything. Even the Prenuvo whole-body scan—which, for the record, was more like a whole-body scam, for me at least. For the price you pay, the amount of useful information I got back was almost laughable. Known issues were missed. Others were misdiagnosed because no one actually followed up with the results. It was a mess. (Though at least I got a refund for that one.) And we won’t even get into the issue(s) I had with my “team” at Mayo…that I truly don’t have the spoons to relive right now.

The Snake Oil I’ve Spoken About Before

I’ve spoken about metaphorical snake oil before—both in my memoir and here on my blog. But this time, I want to speak from the middle of it. Because this is personal.

I have been fainting for as long as I can remember.
And I have been traumatized for just as long.

Burnout isn’t just mental fatigue—it’s physical, cellular, bone-deep. The documentary Heal helped me begin to shift my mindset, and I do believe that healing is possible. But mindset alone isn’t a cure when your body’s still screaming. Healing takes time, space, freedom, and yes—money. All things I haven’t had much of.

The Irony of Not Having a Diagnosis

And here’s the cruel irony: Without a diagnosis, I can’t even begin the process for disability. And even if I could, we all know it can take years to get approved. Years I’m not sure I can survive without some miracle.

I still apply to jobs. Jobs I could do in my sleep if it were just about the mental part. But I no longer trust that my body can keep up. Still, I try. I keep trying.

But some days, it feels like quicksand—a metaphor I use in my memoir and one that came up during an ART session with Dr. Nick. Every time I think I’ve found solid ground, something slips. I lose more footing. And still—I don’t stop.

The “trick” truly is to focus on what’s going right. Celebrate the days I feel ok. Find ways to laugh about things that go wrong. Because good things are happening. Slowly. Quietly. Like seedlings pushing up through cracked pavement. But it’s also hard to keep my eyes on that light when everything around me feels heavy and it’s not just okay to admit that, it’s needed.

The Road Ahead: Stumbling but Persisting

So I’m being honest—because maybe someone else out there needs to hear this too and honestly, it keeps me accountable.

This healing journey? It’s rocky. It’s expensive. It’s confusing as hell. We will stumble. We will stub our toes. We will fall flat on our faces some days, and it will not be graceful.

But we persist.

Even when we don’t logically f*cking know why, we keep going. I don’t know, maybe we’re just built different. Like Cendie said in our recent call, we’re unicorns. F*ck yeah, we’re unicorns.

I gotta survive to keep the magic alive.