You saw the first warning shot—“Someone crossed me, and look what happened.” That was the moment the fire was lit. But let me be clear: that wasn’t the beginning. That was me arriving after every subtle chance to correct the course had already been handed over like a gift they didn’t bother to unwrap.

This next post? It’s the anatomy of my approach.
How I move—quiet, precise, strategic.
How I bait with dignity, guide with facts, and strike with experience.

This is advocacy before it turns volcanic.
This is what happens when the system still has a chance to redeem itself.

Now scroll down and learn how the ‘Frost Method’ works before it melts into confrontation. No, I did not give it the name my proof reader did that for me and I loved it. I will be using mostly medical examples as that is my specialty however as you seen already this is easily modified for most situations. If you can deal with the medical pride and delicate egos there then you can deal with most things using those same skill to identify, adapt and overcome most things like this. I always encourage knowing your rights and the legal obligations. Not just because you don’t want to break the law but because it can save your life or in yesterday’s case finances. Still no clue how I am going to deal with the desperate situation that has left me in to cover bills and food which is always a struggle on AISH as it is. This is why yesterday skipped some of my usual steps, the situation demanded it. So remember to be able to pivot and adapt to the different needs and impacts they create.

They think the letter of demand is where I start. It’s not. It’s where I end—after the hints, the polite inquiries, the guided questions dressed as sugar-coated observations. I begin soft. “Could it be a glitch in your billing system?” I offer face-saving exits, so their pride doesn’t combust on impact. Because when the pride of a corporate rep—or worse, a medical professional—is bigger than this planet, they won’t hear facts until you bend them into ego-soothing shapes. So, I do. I bait with dignity. But make no mistake—I’m not guessing. I’ve formed a valid hypothesis, grounded in evidence, patterns, and experience. I don’t ask, “Could it be Diabetes?” because I’m uncertain. I ask because I’ve read the signs in their eyes, their records, their symptoms. I’ve seen the patterns. I’ve mapped them back to blood tests, diagnoses, and root causes. Years of being a patient, a mother, a medical professional in my own layered way turned advocacy into reflex. Not a hobby. Not a job. A calling that survived even the wreckage of my car accident. When medicine couldn’t be practiced the way I once knew, I practiced something deeper—the art of healing through knowledge, persistence, and confrontation disguised as compassion.

And sometimes I don’t disguise it at all.

That letter you read. The one posted just before this one? That is the final form. That’s after subtle nudges like, “Isn’t alcohol a diagnosis of exclusion?” That’s after I’ve combed NetCare—ConnectCare now, because renaming systems is easier than reforming them—and dug up a record so dusty the A1C hadn’t been done in a decade. A decade. For a man with liver failure. That wasn’t a moment of insight. It was a decade of omission. Medical school didn’t teach me that. Being dismissed by the system did. Watching patients get labeled “noncompliant” because they dared ask for options did. So, I learned. And I taught. Like the day I watched a Nurse Practitioner contaminate a sterile field in slow motion. First it was the sleeve dragging across the setup— “Did your sleeve cross the sterile area? Might be best to reset.” Then it was shaking package contents over the field like she was seasoning dinner—“Protocol change? I was taught to use sterile tweezers instead of raining germs.” I knew the answers. I asked the questions anyway—phrased as if I didn’t—because that’s the game we play. Guided statements dressed up as inquiries. War tactics wrapped in courtesy.

Until it’s not.

Until I say, “Let’s not waste more supplies. I’ll set up the sterile field while you supervise.” It wasn’t a request. It was a takeover softened with just enough diplomacy to be palatable. Because when someone risks putting my patient in the ICU with sloppy technique, I don’t care about egos. I care about outcomes. I care about safety. I care about preserving the standard someone else forgot.

So yes—the letter of demand is the last step. It’s what happens when subtle questions fall on deaf ears. When “Did protocol change?” becomes “You clearly weren’t taught properly, so now I teach.” It’s what I draft after giving repeated chances to fix the issue privately, internally, quietly. It’s not the escalation—it’s the epilogue.

This is what advocacy looks like when it stops asking politely.

This is the Frost Method after mercy has been exhausted.

And if you think the heat is excessive, you haven’t watched a life unravel because someone shook a package wrong. You haven’t been gaslit by a billing system that promised resolution and delivered silence. You haven’t fought your way through a wall of credentials and missed calls just to ask, “Can we check the A1C?”

So don’t call it a letter of demand. Call it what it is—the final warning from someone who already gave the benefit of the doubt.

And when that warning hits a desk, they’ll know.

I’m not just an advocate.

I’m the reckoning they didn’t see coming.