Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

I’ve written about this before—maybe two, three times now. Chronic illness. Storms. Parenting through it. The trauma it leaves behind. But the truth is, every time I write, I hold a piece back. Because reliving it costs energy I barely have. Because writing about being dismissed starts to feel like shouting into a void.

But here I am again. Because I need you to know what it’s cost me.

It’s been over a year since I saw Dr. Nour at Mayo Clinic Rochester. She was supposed to be the one who finally looked at the full picture. Who connected the dots that so many others ignored. Instead, she glanced at a computer that wasn’t even synced with my outside records, refused to review the labs from my endocrinologist, and cast doubt on my diagnosis of secondary adrenal insufficiency without lifting a stethoscope or asking the right questions.

She didn’t even read the notes.

That visit—that fifteen-minute dismissal—cost me more than just time. It cost me another year of quality life, yes. But the truth is, I’ve already lost over five.

Five years of my body breaking in ways that never made sense.

Five years of flare-ups, false recoveries, and medical shrugs.

Five years of watching my children grow up from a bed, a couch, a hospital gurney.

Another year of unpredictable storms that come like clockwork and yet never the same. Vomiting spells that last up to six hours that have progressed to being so violent my body aches for days. Blood pressure drops that leave me curled on the floor, shaking, sweating, unsure if this time is going to be the one that breaks me. Tinnitus screaming in my ears while I try to remember how to breathe. Migraines that feel like my head is going to implode. Not a day goes by that I am not in some kind of pain or discomfort.

The storms are terrifying. Sometimes, I can’t even keep water down. My body feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out, like it’s short-circuiting from the inside with no warning, no mercy, and no end in sight. I’ve laid on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, clutching my stomach, my chest, my head—every part of me screaming silently. I’ve called 911, while I was having an adrenal crisis—the hospital was able to confirm. But even with that validation, I still don’t truly have answers. I’ve been diagnosed with secondary adrenal insufficiency, but no one can—or will—tell me what’s actually causing it.

None of the data ever seems to fully add up. But it does say something. It shows that something inside me is breaking, over and over again. It proves there’s a storm raging in my body that isn’t just in my head. But try telling that to a new provider. The moment they see PTSD in my chart, it’s like a mental shortcut kicks in—Oh, she’s anxious. Must be panic attacks. And with that, the complexity of what’s happening inside me is erased.

They don’t see the work I’ve done. The trauma therapy. The regulation techniques. The hours spent in my psychiatrist’s office unlearning the belief that my symptoms are just emotional spirals. The truth is, I’ve earned the right to be taken seriously. But the system wasn’t built for people like me. Not the soul-tired. Not the chronically ill. Not the ones who already carry the labels that make dismissing us easier.

And I’m tired. Too tired to keep fighting for care I may never receive. Too deep in debt—physically, mentally, financially—to see the light at the end of this tunnel. Every step forward feels like a setback in disguise.

This isn’t just about me being sick. It’s about what being sick costs—when the people who are supposed to help you don’t even try. It’s about how medical gaslighting wears you down so badly that you start to believe you’re the problem. It’s about what it means to lose not just health, but hope.

I haven’t been able to work in over a year. That’s another year of lost income, lost stability, and lost chances to build a future for my girls. Another year of watching them grow up through a haze of pain and survival mode. Another year of barely scraping by, hoping that maybe this next doctor, this next appointment, this next anything will be the thing that helps.

But more than anything, it’s a year of feeling like my voice doesn’t matter. Like I could write until my fingers bleed and still be met with silence. I am soul-weary. Strength fades. Passion flickers. And I’m still no closer to the answers that might help me reclaim what I’ve lost.

I don’t write this for sympathy. I write this because I have always written. Because storytelling is how I’ve survived every storm before this one. And because if there’s anyone else out there feeling this same invisible weight—questioning your worth because the medical system failed you too—I want you to know: you’re not alone.

Even if I don’t feel hope right now, I’m still looking for it.

Even if my hands shake when I write, I’m still writing.

Because maybe, somehow, there’s still something ahead worth holding on for.