The Things You Feel But Don’t Say in These Rooms We Sit In

I’m writing this because I want to remember it, not just what happened, but how it felt to be in that room. Not the details you can easily explain later, but the feeling you carry with you when you walk out, the tension, the quiet discomfort, the things that don’t always make it into words. I don’t want to brush it off or minimize it later. I want to remember it clearly, exactly as it was, because it mattered.

I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that Birth Control pills were given out like candy to Millennial teens, and now IVF is over a 30 billion dollar market. And maybe that thought has been sitting in the back of my mind more than I want to admit as I walk into rooms like this.

There are some appointments you walk into knowing they’re not going to be your favorite, and then there are the ones that leave your body tense, your mind racing, and your spirit just a little unsettled. You know what appointment it is, ladies…. I wish I could wrap it up in a neat little bow and say, “It wasn’t that bad.” But the truth is, it was nerve-wracking in a way that didn’t feel normal. Not the usual awkward. Not the typical uncomfortable. Something about it just didn’t sit right with me. And now… I have to go back.

Pink graphic with a heart at the top and bold text reading “You know what appointment it is, ladies….” with “Sassy Frass with Class” written underneath.

It’s not just the appointment. It’s about what those waiting rooms feel like. It’s too much normalcy thrown at my face all at once. Everything is coordinated, timed, and expected. Conversations about bodies, timelines, milestones. Engagements, weddings, babies, all lined up like a checklist everyone else got handed. Somehow life just keeps moving forward in this perfectly predictable rhythm, and it hits in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve felt it. The conversations feel casual to everyone else, but they carry weight for you. People talk about what’s next like it’s obvious, like it’s guaranteed, like everyone is on the same path just moving at different speeds, and you’re sitting there realizing your path doesn’t look like that. It never has, and maybe it never will in the same way.

There’s a quiet kind of grief in that. Not loud or overwhelming, but steady. The kind that shows up in the middle of ordinary moments, like sitting in a doctor’s office, when you weren’t even expecting to feel it. It’s not always about wanting exactly what everyone else has. It’s about noticing the difference and feeling that gap, being reminded that your life doesn’t follow the same script. Sometimes that feeling is subtle, and sometimes it stings, like salt water in a paper cut. You can be sitting in a completely normal room, having a completely normal conversation, and still feel it underneath everything. You try to stay present, to take things as they are, but there’s still that quiet question in the back of your mind, when did everyone else get the instructions? Like there was a memo passed around about how life was supposed to go, and somehow you weren’t on the list. And it’s not about being bitter. You can celebrate people, support them, show up fully for them, and still feel that disconnect at the same time. Two things can be true. You can be okay, and still feel that sting.

Pink watercolor-style graphic with bold text reading “Sometimes it stings like salt water in a paper cut.” with “Sassy Frass with Class” written underneath and a heart in the corner.

Right before all of that, there was the front desk moment, the kind that shouldn’t be a big deal but somehow turns into one anyway. I found myself going back and forth with a very confident, very by-the-book 20-year-old receptionist over a pregnancy test, something routine for them but not so simple for me. She kept insisting I needed to do it right then and there, like it was the easiest thing in the world, and I’m standing there thinking I can’t just pee in a cup on demand, my body doesn’t work like that, my bladder doesn’t follow a schedule and it definitely doesn’t perform under pressure with people knocking, checking, and waiting outside the door. And the way she was talking to me didn’t help; it had that tone, slower, simplified, a little too rehearsed, like she was explaining something basic to a child instead of having a real conversation with an adult who knows her own body. Instead of it being a conversation, it turned into this back-and-forth where I’m trying to explain my body, and she’s repeating policy, like we’re speaking two completely different languages. It got to the point where I had to ask for her supervisor, not because I wanted to make a scene, but because I needed someone actually to listen, and eventually it got sorted. I took the cup home because my paralyzed bladder deserves a little peace and privacy, not a countdown timer and an audience, and the whole thing could have been so simple if someone had just paused for a second and heard me the first time.

A young lady is sitting at a desk working on a desktop computer with a large monitor, typing while looking at a document on the screen.

And then you’re called back to see the doctor, and if that feeling wasn’t enough, you start to see it play out in real time, reflected right back at you.

And you know, when you’re a woman with a disability, you can feel it. You can tell when they’re uncomfortable with you. When the energy shifts, when the conversation turns into blah answers, like they’re just saying what they think they’re supposed to say instead of actually seeing you. It’s that unspoken moment of “we’re not really sure how to handle you,” and that feeling doesn’t just stay in the room; it lingers.

You’re sitting there fully aware of it, smiling, nodding, doing everything you’re supposed to do, trying to stay present while also feeling that quiet disconnect. Because you know your body. You know your needs. You know when someone is actually meeting you where you are, and when they’re not. It creates this strange split feeling. On the outside, you look calm, cooperative, and easy to work with, but on the inside, your mind is moving a mile a minute. You’re clocking every pause, every shift in tone, every moment that feels just a little off. You start translating the room in real time, not just what’s being said, but what’s not being said. You pick up on the hesitation, the uncertainty, the way things are explained just a little too generally because they don’t quite know how to personalize it for you.

They are uncomfortable with you and start to share all the generic answers like we don’t know how to handle you, but here’s what I know I should be able to do for you abcdefg. And you can hear it in the way they talk. It’s not grounded in you, your body, or your actual needs. It’s coming from somewhere else. Training, memory, and a checklist. It sounds polished on the surface, but it doesn’t land. It doesn’t feel like care; it feels like they’re just covering their bases. The conversation stops feeling real and starts feeling scripted, like they’re trying to say the “right” things instead of the relevant things. You’re sitting there thinking, “You’re talking, but you’re not talking to me.” Because if they were, the answers would look different. They would ask more. Pause more. Listen more.

And instead of adjusting to you, it feels like they’re hoping you’ll adjust to them. Like if they just keep moving through their list, eventually something will stick. But you’re not a list. You’re a person sitting right in front of them, fully aware that they’re missing you in real time. It creates this quiet frustration, not loud enough to call out in the moment, but strong enough to sit heavy in your chest. Because you know what good care feels like. You know what it looks like when someone actually meets you where you are, and this isn’t that.

The most hurtful part is that they don’t really hear you. You’re not a “typical” body, and you know that better than anyone. You live in it every single day. You understand what it needs, what it feels like, what works, and what doesn’t. That knowledge didn’t come from a textbook or a training; it came from experience, from trial and error, from living in it. So when you try to explain something, and it gets brushed past, simplified, or redirected, it doesn’t just feel frustrating; it feels dismissive. Like your lived experience is being quietly pushed to the side in favor of what’s “usually” done or what’s easier to understand. You can feel the moment it happens, when they stop really listening and start translating you into something that fits their framework, something more familiar, something more comfortable for them. But in doing that, they lose you.

There’s something deeply vulnerable about speaking up in those moments, about saying, “No, this is what it’s actually like,” especially when you can tell it’s not fully landing. Especially when you know you’re the one who understands your body best, and yet somehow your voice feels like the least weighted in the room. That’s what makes it hurt. Not just the discomfort of the appointment or the awkwardness of the interaction, but the feeling of not being fully heard in a space where your voice should matter most.

Wall-mounted medical exam equipment, including an otoscope, ophthalmoscope, blood pressure gauge, thermometer, and cords neatly arranged against a light-colored wall.

And that’s exhausting, because it doesn’t just stay in the room. It lingers longer than the appointment itself, following you out the door, into your car, into the quiet moments when everything finally slows down, showing up later when you’re replaying it in your head, going over every detail like a highlight reel you didn’t ask for, thinking about what was said, what wasn’t said, how it felt, and how you responded. You question yourself, wondering if you should have said more, asked more, pushed more, if you made it too easy for them, or if speaking up would have even made a difference, sitting with that tension between knowing your voice matters and feeling like it didn’t fully land. And the hardest part is knowing this isn’t a one-time thing, it’s a pattern, one you’ve seen before and felt in different rooms, with different people, in different ways. You don’t need it explained; you recognize it the second it starts happening, the shift, the tone, the disconnect, familiar in a way you wish it wasn’t, and that familiarity doesn’t make it easier. If anything, it makes it heavier, because you know what’s coming before it even fully unfolds.

So walking back into that space today takes a different kind of courage. Not loud courage, not the kind that makes a scene, but the quiet kind. The kind that says, “I’m uncomfortable, but I’m still showing up.” The kind that reminds me my body is mine, my comfort matters, and my voice matters. I don’t have to shrink to fit the room, and I don’t have to pretend I’m okay if I’m not.

At the same time, I’m not choosing to go back; I have to. I need answers, I need care, and I need to get through it, so I’m going to go in, hear what she has to say, get what I need, and leave as quickly as I can. No overthinking, no sitting in it longer than I have to, because I don’t have the space to carry that feeling with me. I’m showing up for myself the best way I know how, getting what I need, protecting my energy, and moving forward, and right now, that’s enough.

Just as a follow-up, when I went back, I had to wait because the doctor was in the labor room with someone, which honestly didn’t bother me at all. You can’t rush that, and I respect it. When she came in, she was in a fabulous mood, like a completely different energy, and I loved that. She was more optimistic, more present, but she still wanted to go with the same plan I’m not exactly okay with. The diagnosis wasn’t great, but it also wasn’t urgent enough to take over my life right now. And one part I hate about this is that Ben was right about the whole thing. Not a little right, not accidentally right, just… right. I won’t say that too loud, but I know it… You’ve got to be kidding me.

So I followed my plan. Get what I need and leave. I hate to make it sound like a grocery store run, but in some ways, that’s what it feels like. If you won’t or can’t meet me where I am, I don’t really know what else to do except take what I can and go.

Graphic of a woman’s ponytail silhouette with text that says “You’re so quiet, what are you thinking about?” and “Me:” showing beach-themed items inside her head like sunglasses, a sun, iced coffee, flip flops, a beach bag, sunscreen, and lip gloss.

Honestly, it can wait a little longer. My uterus has waited twenty years. A few more months isn’t going to hurt anything. My babies won’t be babies forever. Beach days are waiting, sunshine, laughter, memories I don’t get to pause and come back to later.

So for now, I’m choosing that. I’m choosing to be present, to show up, to make the memories, and to be the sun goddess that I am. And maybe part of that is choosing grace, too, even when it’s hard, even when the experience didn’t feel good, reminding myself to say, “God, please forgive us for our wrongdoings and sins, in the same way that we choose to forgive the people who have hurt or wronged us.” Not because everything felt right, but because I don’t want to carry that weight with me longer than I have to. I can acknowledge what didn’t sit right, advocate for myself, and still choose to release what isn’t mine to hold, even in rooms that don’t always feel like they were made for me. “Sometimes strength isn’t staying. It’s knowing when to get what you need and walk away, because I came for answers, not discomfort, and I’ll take what I need and leave the rest.”