Yesterday, I walked into a hospital for an exam I had been dreading for eighteen months. On paper, it was a simple medical test. But for me, it was something much larger—a reckoning with decades of pain, fear, memory, and trauma.
When I was fifteen and sixteen, hospitals became my second home. I endured countless bladder and kidney infections until doctors finally discovered that I had likely been born with bilateral urethral reflux. What followed were three months of surgeries, complications, seizures from allergic reactions, and the kind of medical interventions that leave a young body trembling long after the wounds are stitched closed.
What made this all so much harder were two things:
- I had already endured sexual abuse by my father as a child, and carried a complicated, often painful relationship with my mother.
- At fifteen, I had to check myself into the hospital alone.
My mother came every day, but she was consumed by raising three children on her own and pursuing her education so she could provide for us. To my teenage heart, that meant one thing: I was still alone. Hospitals came to mean not comfort, but abandonment, pain and fear.
And yet—life has a way of bringing us back to the places where our deepest fears live.
The Call Back
The truth about these surgeries is that they don’t always last forever. Over time, it became harder and harder to live with my bladder challenges. Two summers ago, my doctor scheduled me for a urodynamic flow study—a test that mirrored so much of what had scarred me as a teenager. At first, I had no issue letting it go, because it coincided with a trip to Italy.
But life had other plans.
Within months, infections returned—three in nine months—and simply going to the bathroom became increasingly difficult. My urologist urged me again: This test is unavoidable.
I panicked. I cried. I explained why the thought of it shook me to my core. But he insisted it was the only way forward. And so, reluctantly, I rescheduled.
When April rolled around, I went to the hospital with a trusted friend for what I thought would be the exam itself. Instead, it was only a pre-test. The urologist measured my bladder retention, frowned, and delivered a sentence that felt like a death sentence: You’ll need to use catheters from now on. Your bladder muscles are gone. There is nothing more we can do.
I was in shock. Broken. Convinced, for a moment, that my life as I knew it was over.
But then something in me rebelled.
I decided that this was not the final word. I would not allow trauma—old or new—to be the author of my story. I summoned every ounce of courage I had and scheduled the exam for real this time. And, I was determined to have better results.
And as the day approached, I panicked again. For weeks. For months. My body carried every memory of terror, every scar of abandonment. No amount of breathing or processing could erase the dread completely. I honestly wasn’t sure that I could direct my body to cooperate.
Still—I chose to show up.
Doing My Own Work
Several weeks before the exam, I sat down with myself the way I sit with my clients. I did two coaching sessions using kinesiology—the same Neuro Emotional Coaching I’ve offered to thousands of others. Session by session, I let go of old beliefs that had chained me to fear and helplessness. I restored new, positive ones that gave my body and my heart a chance to believe in a different outcome.
And I did something else that was equally profound: I gave myself permission to let go completely and rely on someone else. I allowed my friend, the same friend who came the first time, to take care of me—to be my advocate, my protector, my steady presence. For someone who had grown up believing I had to survive alone, this was no small thing. It was, in itself, part of the healing.
The Day Arrives
I wish I could tell you that I walked in calm and confident. The truth? I was terrified. I shook, I cried, I prayed. I mixed Bach remedies, leaned on homeopathy, reached out to my spiritual community to hold me in light. And I brought that friend I trusted deeply—who had already proven she would protect me if I could not protect myself. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!!
Here’s what I want you to hear: despite all the fear, I chose to change my perspective. Instead of expecting another trauma, I decided to invite something different. I chose to believe that this time could be healing, easy, infused with love.
And then the magic happened.
The urologist who was going to perform the test was accompanied by another urologist who was much nicer and gentler. My friend, with her gift of softening people, connected with the new guy —asking about his studies, seeing his humanity. The atmosphere shifted. And, the original urologist softened as well. And, when I expressed what I needed in order to participate, they listened. Adjustments were made. My friend was allowed to stay beside me, stroking my head, holding my hand, reminding me that I was safe.
And I did it. I took a deep breath and I was able to cooperate.
Not only did I do it, but the results were better than expected. The doctor looked at me, astonished, and told me I no longer needed to use catheters.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t just medical news. This was a miracle.
The Lesson
What happened yesterday wasn’t just about a hospital exam. It was about rewriting the story of my body. It was about showing myself that trauma can be transformed, that new experiences can take the place of old ones, and that when we invite in love, light, and support, healing can unfold in ways we never imagined.
✨ Don’t believe that things are fixed or hopeless.
✨ Don’t give up on magic.
✨ Don’t underestimate the power of perspective, support, and surrender.
I had walked into that hospital carrying the weight of decades of trauma. I walked out carrying proof that healing is possible.
And this truth isn’t just about hospitals or bladders or test results. It lives everywhere: in our families, our work, our bodies, our countries, even in the aching corners of our world. What seems impossible can shift. What feels broken can heal. What feels final can be rewritten.
Yesterday, I was reminded: our stories are never finished. And in that, confidence in possibility can change can make a huge difference.
