Disclaimer:
This work reflects my personal experiences with medical stigma and discrimination. It highlights systemic issues without naming specific institutions or individuals, aiming to raise awareness and inspire change. No medical advice is provided—this is a call to challenge harmful biases and advocate for equitable care.
Minority Mental Health Matters: Speaking Out Against Stigma
Mental health is often seen as an invisible challenge, and for those of us in minority communities, these struggles are compounded by stigma and systemic barriers. As a disabled, neurodiverse, and Native individual, I’ve experienced firsthand how cultural norms and misconceptions about mental health prevented me from seeking support until I became an adult and took charge of my own medical care.
Even today, the echoes of stigma and biases persist. Not long ago, an issue accessing help in the ER escalated to a critical point—it could have cost me my life. While it’s rare for me to become non-compliant as a patient, my PTSD, combined with medical situations being such a deep trigger, forced me to advocate more fiercely than ever for myself. Ironically, this same level of advocacy is something I often channel to defend others in identical situations.
These barriers and biases aren’t just inconvenient—they are harmful, and at times, life-threatening. Advocacy is no longer optional; it’s essential. Every story, every voice challenging these stereotypes and barriers adds to the momentum for change. My story is one of many, and I hope it inspires others to fight for the care and respect we all deserve.
While this is long I beg you to read it all, it is a scary fact that this goes on and how bad it is. Change starts with knowledge.
Exploring the Devastating Signs of Stigma as an Advocate and Loved One
In minority communities, the stigma surrounding mental health and medical care often stems from deep-seated biases and systemic discrimination. For Native individuals, these challenges are compounded by generational trauma and stereotypes that paint us as less deserving of care. This stigma doesn’t just exist in abstract—it manifests in real, harmful ways.
Take my nokum (grandmother), for example. At 75 years old, she suffered a severe fall after tripping over a puppy. Despite her age and the visible bruising, she hesitated to seek medical care. This wasn’t the first time she had been denied appropriate treatment simply because she is Native. When she finally went to the hospital, they dismissed her concerns without conducting even the most basic examinations—no X-rays, no physical assessment, nothing beyond a suggestion to take Advil and go home.
When I heard about this, I went to see her and immediately noticed the deep bruising and felt something unusual beneath the surface. I convinced her to return to the hospital, but the same dismissive treatment began again. Knowing what had happened before, I skipped the gentle nudges and dove right into advocacy without hesitation.
I confronted the doctor directly: “So, you’re saying you’re going to deny her appropriate medical care at even the most basic level. Look at the bruising—it’s deep and hasn’t shown any signs of starting to age, which strongly suggests there could still be bleeding. She’s 75 years old and suffered a serious fall—busted bones at her age are not uncommon. At the very least, an X-ray is necessary. Ignoring these symptoms isn’t just neglect—it’s dangerous.”
I didn’t stop there. I made it abundantly clear that failing to act would have consequences: “Denial of care, negligence, discrimination, and outright dismissal of her condition are unacceptable. If you choose not to address this properly, I’ll make sure the College of Physicians and Surgeons hears about your actions. They don’t take this sort of thing lightly.”
The conversation escalated further. When the doctor began to dismiss my concerns and attempted to leave the room without performing even a basic physical examination, I physically blocked the doorway with my wheelchair. “Oops,” I said pointedly, refusing to move until they took her situation seriously. Once I had their attention, I firmly guided them to conduct the physical exam, directing them to examine the exact area where I had felt something unusual earlier. I wasn’t going to allow them to sidestep their responsibility.
Even after the physical exam revealed issues, I had to continue fighting to ensure she received appropriate care. Securing the right medication was another uphill battle. The doctor initially tried to prescribe only prescription-strength Advil, which I knew wouldn’t be enough. I pressed for a proper treatment plan that included medication to reduce swelling, relax the injured muscle, and effectively manage her pain. As someone who has had to use these types of medications myself, I knew precisely what was required and wouldn’t let them settle for the bare minimum.
In the end, we made progress. Proper pain relief was prescribed, crutches were provided to keep weight off the injured leg, and medication was given to address the swelling and muscle tension. I even insisted on scheduling a follow-up appointment, ensuring I could attend virtually if needed to oversee her care moving forward.
This experience isn’t unique to my nokum. It’s a pattern I’ve seen repeatedly, both in my own life and as an advocate for others. The assumption that Native patients are “drug seekers” or exaggerating their pain leads to dangerous neglect. These biases are not just frustrating—they are life-threatening.
For my nohtâwiy (father), these biases have shaped his experiences across his life, beginning decades ago. When he was younger, a broken back went undiagnosed for years, leaving him with permanent pain and mobility issues. That dismissal of his pain and the failure to provide proper care shaped the foundation of his complex medical history, which continues to complicate his treatment today.
More recently, this same hospital demonstrated yet again how stereotypes and bias can put lives at risk. My nohtâwiy was admitted with dangerously low oxygen saturation levels—his instincts told him something was wrong, so he messaged me. The hospital had claimed that an O2 saturation level in the low 80s was “normal,” despite the fact that oxygen is typically administered when levels drop to 92%.
Knowing how this hospital operates, I advised him to request a second opinion to buy time until I could get there. Advocating over the phone at this facility is futile—they’ve repeatedly dismissed calls for better care when Native patients are involved. As soon as I arrived, the tension was palpable. They attempted to block me from his room, citing “family only” rules to prevent me from staying by his side. But they didn’t expect me to be his daughter—a fact that made their excuses crumble. Beyond that, I reminded them that advocates for patients cannot legally be denied access without valid medical reasoning.
This hospital is notorious for forcing me into my most direct and firm advocacy style. Normally, I begin with polite questions and gentle nudges, easing the conversation forward. But this hospital doesn’t respond to diplomacy—they’ve built a reputation for dismissing Native patients, no matter how urgent their needs. This is why I no longer hide my medical background when advocating here. While I keep the full extent of my knowledge reserved, I have to make it clear that I know what I’m talking about.
The doctor on duty attempted to derail the discussion by questioning my medical background: “What exactly is your experience in the medical field?” they asked. But I wasn’t about to entertain their distraction. I shut them down with firm clarity: “This has nothing to do with your patient and as such is irrelevant to this discussion. We are not friends, so you don’t need to know my personal history. What you need to do is focus on the patient’s history and provide the care you went to school for. Shall we proceed?”
Over the course of two weeks, I repeatedly fought for my nohtâwiy’s care. His oxygen saturation in the low 80s wasn’t just concerning—it was dangerous. Prolonged hypoxia can lead to irreversible brain damage and organ failure. Yet despite the urgency, the hospital staff remained resistant to providing the necessary interventions. Each visit saw me pushing harder, refusing to let stereotypes and biases dictate the quality of his treatment.
If the fight for proper care had been as grueling as it was during my nokum’s ER visit, I wouldn’t have hesitated to arrange a transfer. I’ve built strong relationships with hospitals in my city, where my presence as an advocate is respected—even by those who may dislike me. But here, near the reservation, I had to work twice as hard to ensure my nohtâwiy received basic, life-saving attention.
Ultimately, the negligence my nohtâwiy has faced across his life reflects the broader challenges Native individuals encounter in healthcare. It shouldn’t take fierce, relentless advocacy to secure something as basic as proper medical treatment—but time and again, that’s the reality. And for families like mine, the fight never truly ends.
Personal Experiences with Medical Neglect
The pervasive stigma in healthcare doesn’t just affect my family—it has affected me personally, too. These experiences underscore how racial discrimination and bias against mental health can intersect with life-threatening consequences.
One of my earliest encounters with this prejudice occurred years ago, when I visited the same hospital where my nokum and nohtâwiy faced neglect. I had broken my wrist less than 48 hours before, and my fingers had started to discolor—clear signs that the cast was too tight and needed to be replaced. A cast that is too tight can cause serious complications, including restricted blood flow, nerve damage, swelling, and even tissue death if left unaddressed. Despite the urgency, my visit turned into a confrontation fueled by racial bias.
The doctor began preparing to remove the cast without administering any pain medication—a decision that disregarded the fact that removing a tight cast can aggravate already inflamed or compressed tissues, causing excruciating pain. As the cast removal started, the pain was unbearable. Instead of addressing this or acknowledging my condition, the doctor outright accused me of being a drug seeker.
The accusation, paired with the immense physical pain, pushed me to respond sharply: “Did you bother to look at my medical history? All hospitals and doctors across Alberta have access to it, which makes spotting drug seekers easier. Can you tell me the last time I was given pain meds before other interventions were attempted? If not, go take a damn look and then come back, and we’ll revisit this circulation issue.” It wasn’t my proudest moment, but it shocked the doctor into checking my medical history.
After reviewing my records, the doctor returned, visibly subdued. Without an apology, he administered pain relief—opiates, to be exact—finally addressing the severity of my condition. Once the morphine had taken effect, he proceeded with removing the cast and replacing it. Even then, I faced further dismissiveness.
The doctor began cutting the cast off, finally proceeding with proper pain management. Once the swelling subsided enough to replace the cast, I questioned why they had initially opted for plaster over fiberglass. They couldn’t offer a valid medical reason—evidently, it had been a half-hearted decision—and quickly changed course, letting me choose the fiberglass color instead. It was my first exposure to this sort of discrimination and dismissive care, and it left a lasting impression.
Years later, in December 2024, I experienced another life-threatening ordeal—this time compounded by prejudice against my mental health history. I had called an ambulance after struggling with severe breathing issues, expecting urgent help. Instead, when I arrived at the hospital, I was placed in the offload section—a holding area where patients wait for beds—and left there for six agonizing hours without proper evaluation.
During those six hours, no bloodwork was done, no tests were run, and no meaningful intervention took place. Staff removed the oxygen I had been using in the ambulance—a decision directly against protocol, as oxygen can only be discontinued by a doctor’s orders. Without oxygen, my breathing worsened. My fear and frustration escalated, but I was powerless to get help in this neglected space. They did this because they wanted to get every patient in their care anywhere else and taking me off oxygen would make it easier to get me out of their way so they could gossip. Which was foolish given they knew I was paying attention and they knew I had a deep medical background.
When I was finally transferred to a room, my breathing was still dangerously labored, and my oxygen levels were critically low. The delay in care had compounded my condition, and I was scared, actually I was terrified —not just of what was happening to me physically, but of the dismissiveness I continued to encounter. The doctor arrived and began asking about my medical history. It was a slow and painful exchange, as I had to pause to take a breath every few words. I listed as many of my medical concerns as I could manage, but as soon as I mentioned anxiety—a small piece of my complex health history—the doctor abruptly left the room. She didn’t listen to the full picture or acknowledge the severity of my symptoms. In that moment, it was clear I had been dismissed, judged, and abandoned because of the stigma surrounding mental health and my race.
The negligence continued. Nurses came in wearing gowns to administer a COVID swab. At this point, I couldn’t contain my frustration. “When you can explain why I was left in a hall near the ICU and maternity ward elevators without a mask for six hours, with breathing issues, and you didn’t bother to test me then and only then can you test me.” I snapped bitterly. My patience was nearly gone, as my breathing became more labored by the minute. They did not do the swab and suddenly there were no more covid precautions being taken. Funny how that worked out huh? Apparently it was not even that big a deal to even try and justify it.
The doctor recommended Ativan, treating my severe breathing difficulty as nothing more than anxiety. I refused the medication outright. This wasn’t fear or a panic attack—it was something far more critical. I had already tried Ativan and ventolin at home in large doses, and neither had worked. Still, the doctor clung to her dismissive diagnosis and insisted I take the medications, disregarding my worsening condition. She did not at any point discuss the treatment plan, this is also against protocol. I have the right to make an informed decision about my medical care and to be kept up to date on what is going on. It is not a privledge, it is not for the dr to decide, I am a full grown adult in charge of my own care and by law I am the one who ultimately makes the choices unless my next of kin needs to be making those choices because I am in no state to do so such as unconscious. The dismissal of my symptoms, combined with the exhaustion of hours spent fighting for care, pushed me into fury. By this point, I had no intention of playing diplomat—I demanded action. This is sometimes when having a medical background can be a curse. It elevates the fear when you know things are not going right, it also is the reason why “medical professionals make the worst patients”. Uhh yea because we call you out on the bs.
I finally erupted, my frustration boiling over into an outburst I ensured was loud enough to be heard across the unit. That is the nice thing about having the ability to take charge of mass casualty situations in the field, you need to be heard but you don’t want to scream and yell so you learn to pitch your voice. I have that one down pat and sometimes making a fuss that can be heard makes them pay more attention because now there are witnesses. I hate using this tool but when scared those tools are going to be used based on instinct. The sheer force of my voice was enough to draw attention from other patients as well as staff, and for the first time that day, someone truly listened. A nurse came to my side—a nurse who would ultimately save my life. She didn’t dismiss me or brush aside my concerns. Instead, she did the one thing everyone else had failed to do: she listened.
She sat beside me, asking what had happened, allowing me to share my story, fears, and frustrations. Her compassion was evident in her every word and action. Through this simple act of listening, she began to shift the dynamic entirely. The calmed me down by asking educated questions on how to help me, what I needed. I told her I needed to be heard. I needed to be able to breathe properly not at 30 respirations per minute and a pulse of 130 at the low end. I needed help. She then asked given I had mentioned my ASD, PTSD and anxiety and that I was without my service dog (she was sick). She made sure I had what I needed to stay calm. She fought with the dr who avoided me like the plague, she became my advocate and stayed well past shift change to ensure I was safe. I do not recall her name but I hope she comes across this post and knows that her help to this day bring tears of relief to me because she is one of the ones who truly cares and like me, got into the field to help people not for the paycheck.
Eventually, bloodwork was taken—a step that should have happened the moment I arrived. The moment I arrived with my vitals and the tests done in the ambulance revealing the issues they did I should have been in a trauma bay. I was in life threatening condition and the paramedics knew and yet I was dismissed for some reason despite the clear data that I was in danger. The results revealed an elevated D-Dimer level, a marker that often indicates blood clots when the blood work finally returned.
It took me a minute to recognize what that meant because I was used to the other side of things, numbers that mean bleeding risks. I wanted to throw up, I was scared, I was alone, I am there for others and yet no one was there for me and those who would have been I could not get a hold of. My adoptive father, this would usually be a place he would come to actually support because then he could brag about it and make himself look good, I wouldn’t have cared I did not want to be alone, him I did get a hold of and he was to busy. Two of his daughters are in the medical field, one medical retired (hi there) and one an RN. Not to mention the many other family members so he has enough knowledge from over hearing conversations to help advocate at least a bit. I was alone knowing exactly what this could mean. Blood clots are dangerous no matter where they are. Given my breathing issues it indicated a pretty serious location.
The dr came into the room just barely, you could tell she did not want to be near me. She told me the results and that since I am allergic to contrast dye they would do a necular scan. I know that test, I know it to well, watching my daughter go through that test was the only test that ever brought me to near breaking. I pointed this out and said I needed to be given sedation or made so I don’t care and wont recall the test later for my mental health. This was when she decided to say “It is such a miniscule elevation I seriously doubt there is any clot in your body. You can go home now if you like.”
Uhhh I still can’t breath right and my vitals are still at should be in trauma bay or at least nurse in room if not assessed by the ICU team. Outside of dismissing this danger her actions could have caused major complications and I am not sure how they did not to be honest. All because I have PTSD and needed help to get through a test. First my anxiety and then my PTSD. Then it occurred to me she probably seen the ASD, and most people have this belief we aren’t very smart. This makes them under estimate us, all the better for me to be honest, foolishness on their part. Especially given by this point I had not hidden my deep knowledge of medical terms, and there are lots I have. Even surprised surgeons with my words here. I am wicked smart and I am the quiet one, you know the one you dismiss and ends up being the biggest threat. That one.
At that point, I couldn’t hold back. “Any risk when it comes to a clot is too high a risk. Figure it out. I am not giving you a choice here unless you want to deny me medical care,…” I let loose with more then clear terminology that most would not get without a medical background or being around those with one a fair bit. I went full on logic, facts, and out right sked if she wanted to keep practicing medicine in any form, I held nothing back. I cut with my words. I had enough, and fear doesn’t trigger fight or flight, I have no flight response. I went full on non compliant patient. I know what expression was on my face, those who know me joke they never want to be on the receiving end of it. They are right. It takes a fair bit to get me to this point. I demanded the charge nurse who never showed (there will be repricusions for that one), I also asked for a second opinion and was told she was the only doctor on duty that night… uhh bull fucking shit in a major hospital in a major city that is the biggest lie possible. Plus it is my legal right to have a second opinion and I was denied this.
Even a slightly elevated D-Dimer level should never be dismissed, as it can signal the presence of clots that may not yet be causing severe symptoms but could rapidly escalate into life-threatening conditions. Early detection is critical to prevent complications such as pulmonary embolisms, strokes, or other clot-related emergencies. I knew the significance of the phrase “denial of medical care”—a term that can lead to severe consequences for a doctor if proven. Begrudgingly, she ordered a nuclear scan to check for clots. This was said a few times in my tirade which had gathered more then a few eyes. I also know protocol, any staff who valued their jobs would have written an incident report up that day. She was asinine but not completely an idiot.
The scan itself triggered my PTSD in one of the worst episodes I’ve ever experienced. Just the thought of undergoing the procedure sent me into panic and terror. But the nurse who had listened earlier stayed by my side throughout. She continued to treat me with care and respect, knowing the trauma I was enduring. Her approach was simple yet powerful: she treated me as a colleague. By discussing medical details directly, she helped me compartmentalize my fear and focus on the survival steps I needed to take. Her unwavering support gave me the strength to face the scan—a terrifying process for me, given my history with medical trauma. They had to give me two large doses of IV Ativan to get me calm enough to get into that room alone. It is a test I will need to go through again soon and I will be just as alone.
The results confirmed multiple blood clots in both lungs—known as pulmonary embolisms. Pulmonary embolisms are often referred to as silent killers because they rarely present clear symptoms until it’s too late. These clots block blood flow in the lungs, causing oxygen deprivation and potentially fatal outcomes if untreated. Studies estimate that as many as 30,000 to 50,000 Americans die each year from pulmonary embolisms. Many of these deaths occur because the condition is discovered too late to intervene. My asthma, ironically, had saved my life. The flare-up earlier had drawn attention to my breathing difficulties, masking the more sinister cause and prompting me to seek medical help. However the asthma not responding signaled worse was there. This should never have happened. Mixed with the fear and vocabulary I wielded, my desperation had ensured I wasn’t ignored entirely. I hadn’t acted as an advocate in the calm, measured way I typically would—but I had fought fiercely and loudly, and it had worked. I feel no shame for it, with the way that the dr acted even with those reactions tells me I probably would have hit extreme measures anyway, just in a more collected format.
However, the negligence didn’t end there. There was no plan for follow-up care after my discharge—no referrals, no discussions about the next steps, nothing to ensure continuity of care. It wasn’t until days ago that a doctor from a completely different program stepped in and made the necessary referrals for follow-up care TODAY. Specialists are now working to identify the source of the clots, but I’m still waiting for answers. The lingering uncertainty is a stark reminder of how badly the system failed me. My first visit with these specialists is the 29th and they are trying to get me in sooner. I should have seen them in the ER as well.
This ordeal shook me deeply. If I had trusted the doctor’s initial dismissive assessment and gone home, as she suggested, I wouldn’t have survived. These incidents show just how dangerous stigma can be—not just for mental health, but for physical health as well. It costs lives and prevents patients from receiving the care they need. What if someone else in December had simply trusted the doctor’s dismissive assessment? What if I had been unable to break through my autism’s selective mutism or overcome my fear? The outcome would have been fatal.
I don’t share these stories lightly. They cause deep pain because they are so close to home and part of a repeating pattern. This is not the first time a Doctor has decided it is psychiatric instead of real and almost cost my life. Even now, attempting to report the negligence I experienced in December breaks me down emotionally. But this example is essential to highlight how serious this issue is—and how desperately change is needed.
The Broader Impact of Medical Stigma
Medical stigma, as evidenced by my personal experiences, extends far beyond isolated incidents. It is a pervasive issue that erodes trust in healthcare systems and compounds the suffering of countless individuals, particularly within marginalized communities. For Native people, the harm is amplified by generational trauma, systemic discrimination, and stereotypes that have been deeply ingrained in the fabric of healthcare institutions.
The immediate consequences of stigma are painfully evident—dismissed symptoms, inadequate care, and the sheer exhaustion of having to fight for even the most basic treatment. However, the long-term effects are often less visible but no less damaging. Every time I am subjected to stigma in a medical setting, it deepens my trauma and extends its reach into future moments. It doesn’t just linger as a memory—it reshapes my willingness and ability to seek care.
Each time I encounter bias or negligence, I walk away with the weight of the question: What if I’m not strong enough to fight for what I need the next time? What if I don’t have the knowledge to know something needs attention—will it cost me my life? This fear isn’t unfounded. Many who face stigma in medical settings retreat from seeking care altogether. The thought of enduring dismissal or discrimination again becomes paralyzing.
For me, that fear slows my steps toward care—every time. What if my symptoms are dismissed, and I leave without the help I need? The next time my life depends on seeking care, will I hesitate for too long?
The trauma inflicted by medical stigma goes beyond the individual. It is a cycle that perpetuates distrust in healthcare systems, especially within communities already facing systemic barriers to care. In Native communities, this distrust runs deep, shaped by a history of medical neglect and abuse. It is compounded by the intergenerational trauma of colonialism and systemic oppression. Medical institutions were, for many, not places of healing but sources of harm—and that legacy continues to shape how these communities interact with healthcare today.
For individuals like me, the trauma is twofold: the immediate emotional and physical harm caused by neglect, and the long-term erosion of trust and willingness to seek help. This isn’t just about being mistreated—it’s about the toll that mistreatment takes on our very ability to survive.
Mental Health Stigma: The Silent Struggle
The stigma surrounding mental health is one of the most pervasive and damaging forms of discrimination within healthcare. For conditions such as PTSD, anxiety, and autism spectrum disorder (ASD), stigma can turn the pursuit of care into an uphill battle fraught with invalidation, misunderstanding, and judgment.
While my experiences have centered around these three conditions, they are only a fraction of the many mental health issues that are misused as convenient diagnoses for physical symptoms. Depression, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia—the list is extensive, and the consequences are devastating. Instead of conducting proper investigations into symptoms, healthcare providers often rely on mental health diagnoses as explanations for conditions that could be life-threatening. This failure to act with urgency can cost lives.
For individuals with PTSD, stigma often manifests in the assumption that their trauma is exaggerated or that their symptoms can be easily “controlled” if they just try harder. Healthcare providers may dismiss their triggers or fail to recognize the profound impact PTSD has on every aspect of a person’s life—physical health included. This dismissal can be especially harmful during medical emergencies, where unaddressed PTSD triggers can lead to panic, selective mutism, or the inability to advocate for oneself. The fear of these scenarios often discourages individuals from seeking help, even when their lives depend on it.
For those with anxiety, stigma often reduces their struggles to mere nervousness or irrational fear. It ignores the debilitating effects of chronic anxiety, including how it can exacerbate physical conditions or interfere with communication during medical visits. In some cases, this stigma leads to misdiagnoses where anxiety is falsely attributed as the root cause of life-threatening symptoms. For example, breathing issues caused by a pulmonary embolism may be dismissed as anxiety, delaying critical care. These errors can have devastating consequences, as timely and accurate diagnoses are often the difference between life and death.
Autism spectrum disorder presents unique challenges in the realm of stigma. For individuals like me, selective mutism or sensory overload can make communication difficult in medical settings, especially under stress. Instead of accommodating these needs, healthcare providers may misinterpret non-verbal cues as noncompliance or dismiss concerns altogether. The lack of understanding around ASD leaves many patients feeling abandoned and invisible, fearing they won’t be able to convey the urgency of their situation or advocate for themselves when it matters most.
The stigma tied to mental health conditions doesn’t just impact the quality of care—it impacts the willingness to seek care at all. For many, the thought of facing judgment or dismissal outweighs the need for treatment. This fear leads to delayed diagnoses, worsening conditions, and, in far too many cases, preventable deaths. The combination of mental health stigma and physical health neglect creates a dangerous barrier—one that is especially insurmountable for those who lack the knowledge or resources to fight back.
Even with the knowledge and advocacy skills I have, the December 2024 experience nearly cost me my life. Misdiagnosis and neglect combined in a way that required sheer luck for survival. This wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered a situation where the odds were stacked against me—and where I was lucky to walk away alive. But luck is fickle, and survival shouldn’t depend on it. For many, these experiences result in tragic outcomes simply because stigma prevents healthcare providers from treating symptoms seriously.
A Call to Action
The systemic nature of this issue demands systemic solutions. Healthcare providers must undergo training that goes beyond cultural competence—it must address the biases and stereotypes that fuel neglect and dismissal. Accountability measures must be enforced to ensure that negligence and discrimination have consequences. And most importantly, spaces must be created where patients feel heard, respected, and valued—not judged, dismissed, or ignored. True change cannot happen until patients’ voices are at the center of the conversation.
For many marginalized individuals, stigma isn’t just an additional challenge—it’s a barrier that determines whether they live or die. My own experiences have underscored this stark reality, but I am not alone. Stories like mine are far too common, and they all point to the same truth: healthcare cannot truly heal if stigma is allowed to fester within its walls. Until the system changes, the fight for dignity and care will continue to be an uphill battle—one that too many are too traumatized to keep fighting. I am not one to put up with this for those I advocate for, yet for myself it is different I face this all to often and have for many years. There are more times I was lucky to survive from situations like this. There are times I was denied medical care for my migraines despite it being detailed clearly in my medical charts. I am not scared to walk into a medical facility to fight for another, I am terffied to walk into one for my own care. This is not ok and I know this is an international issue. Even if we are not the one’s on the receiving end if we hear it going on I beg you as one of those patients frozen from facing this to often, speak up for me even if you don’t know me. If we all start doing this, less lives will be lost due to discrimination and stigma that have no place in the medical field.
Who am I? 
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