This One’s for the Doctors…

A sentence that takes you five seconds to say can change whether someone seeks medical care for the next five years.

Because we’re not just talking about bedside manner. We’re talking about what happens when someone already had to overcome anxiety, shame, past medical experiences, fear of being called dramatic, fear of wasting someone’s time, financial barriers, childcare, taking off work, etc. – and then they finally get themselves into the room and they hear:

“I think you’re making this up.”

“That shouldn’t hurt.”

“Your tests are normal.”

“It’s probably just anxiety.”

“You’re too young for that.”

“Just lose some weight.”

And then they show up in our offices.

Now I’m not writing this to blame physicians or pretend I don’t understand the other side of this. I do.

You’re seeing patients back-to-back. You have limited time, documentation demands, insurance restrictions, patients walking in with screenshots from Google and TikTok, and an impossible expectation to somehow have an answer for everything happening in the body within a 15 minute appointment.

I know there are patients who leave out important information. Patients who struggle to describe what they’re experiencing. Patients whose symptoms don’t line up neatly with the testing. Patients who are convinced they have something they don’t have. And yes, sometimes anxiety is contributing to what someone is experiencing.

But there’s a difference between not having an answer and making someone feel like their experience isn’t real.

And that difference matters.

I know this from the other side of the exam room, too.

When I was 20, I was in so much abdominal pain I could barely move – and I still wasn’t going to the emergency room.

It took my boyfriend’s mom calling my dad, and my dad essentially saying, “She has a high pain tolerance. If she’s saying it hurts that badly, take her in,” for me to finally go.

At one point during the ER visit, I was asked if I was sure I hadn’t already had my appendix removed.

I remember thinking…pretty sure? I feel like abdominal surgery is something I would remember. Not to mention the whole lack of a scar situation.

And listen, I understand what they were trying to figure out. What they were seeing didn’t fit what they expected to see. Turns out there was a reason.

My appendix isn’t where it’s “supposed” to be.

It sits in the middle of my abdomen hiding behind a bunch of other things. Eventually, a specialist reviewed the imaging, found it, and confirmed I had appendicitis. In my case, antibiotics worked, and I didn’t end up needing surgery.

Which created an entirely new version of the same conversation.

Because now when I tell medical providers that I’ve had appendicitis but still have my appendix, I sometimes get the look. My mom has even had a nurse tell her that what happened to me “isn’t possible.”

Except…it happened.

And that’s the piece I want us to pay attention to.

Medicine is based on patterns. Human beings don’t always follow them.

Sometimes a patient’s experience doesn’t fit what you expect to see. That doesn’t automatically make the patient an unreliable narrator of their own body.

There’s a huge difference between:

“That’s unusual. Help me understand what happened.”

and

“That’s not possible.”

In therapy, we sometimes get to hear what happens after that appointment is over.

I hear:

“I know I should probably get this checked out, but the last doctor made me feel stupid.”

“What if they think I’m being dramatic?”

“They already told me nothing is wrong.”

“Maybe it really is all in my head.”

“I don’t want to be that patient.”

And sometimes, before I can even encourage someone to make an appointment, we have to work through the fear of what might happen when they do.

That’s the impact I’m asking medical providers to consider.

You don’t have to know what’s wrong.

You don’t have to order every test a patient asks for.

You don’t have to agree with the diagnosis they found online at 2am.

And sometimes the answer really may involve anxiety, stress, or another mental health component.

But “I don’t know what’s causing this yet” and “this isn’t happening” are not the same statement.

Neither are:

“Your tests are normal, so there’s nothing wrong with you.”

and

“Your tests are normal, which is good news. But I hear that you’re still experiencing these symptoms, so let’s talk about what happens next.”

Those differences might feel small when you have a waiting room full of patients and another note to finish.

They may not feel small to the person sitting on the exam table.

Because you might not see what happens six months later when something else starts hurting and they decide not to make the appointment.

You might not hear them tell their therapist, “It’s probably nothing.”

You might not see them rehearse what they’re going to say because they’re terrified they won’t explain it “right.”

You might not hear how quickly they minimize their own pain because somewhere along the way they learned that asking for help makes them difficult, dramatic, or a burden.

We do.

And I also want to acknowledge the medical providers who are already doing this.

The ones who take an extra minute to listen even when they’re running behind. The ones who say, “I don’t know yet, but I believe you’re experiencing this.” The ones who recognize that mental health and physical health aren’t separate systems, and who can explore anxiety, stress, or trauma as part of the picture without using them to explain away everything else.

The ones who make their patients feel like partners in their own care.

Thank you.

Because those interactions have an impact, too.

I hear about those doctors in my office as well.

I hear, “My doctor actually listened to me.”

“She didn’t make me feel crazy.”

“He explained why he wasn’t worried instead of just telling me not to worry.”

“I finally felt like someone believed me.”

Those sentences stick with people, too.

And sometimes, having one medical provider who makes someone feel safe enough to ask questions, speak up, or come back when something still doesn’t feel right can change their relationship with healthcare entirely.

So, this one’s for the doctors.

Not because I expect you to have every answer.

Not because I think every patient is right about what’s happening in their body.

And certainly not because I think practicing medicine is easy.

It’s because your words carry weight.

Sometimes more than you realize.

You may not remember the sentence you said. Your patient might remember it for the rest of their life.