Learning to Advocate For Myself After Years of Medical Gaslighting (Free Printable checklist Included)

Dr. K: "You know, being overweight puts a lot of strain on the body, and you have a stressful job. Here's a prescription for Xanax, and try to lose some weight before your next visit. I'm positive you'll see a difference."

Dr. G: "You have GERD. Avoid onions, garlic, and tomatoes, and you'll be fine. Oh, and don't sleep flat."

Random ER Doc: "Are you sure you have celiac? Were you professionally diagnosed? A lot of people like to think they have it, but they don't."

Dr. K: "Anxiety can sometimes look like other things. Let's increase your dosage and see where we're at in three months."

Dr. W: "A blood pressure of 94/59 is fine. Lower is better than higher."

Random ER Doc: "You're overweight, and you have anxiety. If you control those things, you'd be surprised what that will fix."

After years of exchanges like these, I genuinely started to wonder if I was imagining things. When every appointment ends with a shrug, a sedative, and a suggestion to lose weight, you learn to be as dismissive of your inner voice as the doctors are of your outer voice. You start doubting the signals from your own body, and, worse, you start trusting people who don't live in it.

It took me a long time — too long — to realize that what I thought was compliance was actually self-erasure. I wasn't being a good patient. I was being a doormat, and the only one benefiting was the doctor. They didn't have to put in the effort to diagnose me when all they needed to do was make an easy, lazy suggestion to gain my buy-in. Don't rock the boat. Doctor knows best. They're the ones with the fancy diplomas on the wall.

What a load of 1920s bullshit.

* * *

Learning to advocate for myself wasn't a single moment of inspiration, a lightning-bolt-from-the-heavens kind of sudden knowing — it was, and still is, a slow, painful unlearning of deference, doubt, and the idea that doctors always know best.

Eventually, after far too long, exhaustion did what all my internal pep-talks could never manage. I got tired of being polite about my own suffering and worrying about making doctor visits easy for the doctor. I stopped assuming that being silent and compliant was showing respect. I started realizing I was being complicit in my own dismissal, and I got mad… at myself.

All I had to show for years of compliance was a Xanax addiction and the inability to keep food in my stomach. I couldn't sleep, was losing weight without trying, and couldn't change position without risking fainting.

The real shift came in March 2020, when instead of trying to diagnose me, my then-doctor wanted to prescribe sleeping pills… of all things (I didn't have insomnia). The script came with a thinly-veiled threat: "If you don't want to take these, there's nothing more I can do for you."

That moment wasn’t cinematic. No swelling music, no sudden transformation. Just a vow to myself that I was done being grateful for paint-by-numbers medicine.

It wasn't a great loss. He hadn't done that much for me anyway.

* * *

I didn’t wake up the next day a confident patient who knew exactly what to say. It was the start of a world pandemic, and it took me nine months to find a new doctor. At first, advocacy looked like last-minute scribbled words on a scrap of envelope found in my car and nervous rehearsals in the rearview mirror before each appointment. I’d tell myself, You’re not being difficult. You're sick, and you need help.

My scribbled notes evolved into something more structured and deliberate. Between appointments, I started writing down symptoms and patterns — not just the “what” but the “when” and “how bad.” It wasn’t about proving my pain to anyone; it was about building a record that couldn’t be waved away with a shrug.

Then I began bringing research to my appointments. I learned early that a printed page carries more weight than a spoken question. If I could point to a study or a guideline, I was harder to dismiss. Printing a study from the NIH that supported my own symptoms also forestalled the patronizing "Doctor Google" comments.

I also practiced what I call polite persistence. Instead of folding under generic reassurances, I learned to say things like, “I understand your point, but I need this explored further.” It felt weirdly unnatural at first, like I was a little kid defying an adult. My voice would shake, and my stomach would knot, but every time I held my ground, it made 'next time' just that much easier.

What I finally realized is that self-advocacy isn’t aggression. It’s self-preservation. After years of being told my problems were all in my head but also because of my weight (make it make sense), it turns out what I needed most was to stop apologizing for wanting to feel well.

It also helped that my new doctor understood we both had value in this equation. He had the fancy diplomas, and I had the lived experience. If your doctor isn’t interested in being your partner, you have the wrong doctor.

* * *

Over time, I started building a system that made medical appointments less of a gamble. Before each visit, I’d jot down questions, track symptoms in detail, and gather a few credible studies. Sometimes I bring my partner with me, because it’s easier to stay grounded when someone else is hearing the same conversation.

During appointments, I learned to be specific — not “I feel dizzy a lot,” but “I get dizzy when I stand up and when I bend down.” I took notes, asked why, and requested clarification instead of pretending I understood. And if a doctor brushed something off as anxiety, I asked that it be documented that way in my chart.

Afterward, I’d review what was said, check the details, and keep tracking my progress. I stopped seeing advocacy as confrontation; it became collaboration — me learning their language while expecting them to respect mine.

Learning to advocate for myself didn’t magically fix my health. It didn’t guarantee compassionate doctors or instant answers. But it did change everything about how I move through the system, and how I see myself within it.

I no longer leave medical appointments in tears. I don’t assume every shrug and sigh means I’m being unreasonable. Sometimes, a doctor’s frustration can be about the limits of their own understanding.

Most of all, I stopped seeing self-advocacy as conflict. It’s not about proving someone wrong. It’s about insisting on being part of the conversation. About not having my lived experience shrugged off because it doesn’t come with a framed diploma.

I can’t control how a medical professional responds to me, but I can control how prepared I am, how clearly I communicate, and how calmly I hold my ground.

And so can you.

Download the Free Printable Medical Self-Advocacy Checklist Here