Eleven
Imposter syndrome isn’t just something I experienced in the professional realm. As a chronically ill and disabled person, it’s a mental load I carry every day, a weight that compounds with every delayed diagnosis, every raised eyebrow, every “Are you sure?” from a medical professional. I’ve spent years in and out of hospitals and clinics, speaking a language most people will never have to learn—chart notes, diagnostic codes, procedural scripts—yet still, I find myself questioning the legitimacy of my own body’s distress. Not because I doubt myself, but because I’ve been taught to.
Doctors, the people we’re taught to trust unconditionally, can become our worst enemies when they don’t believe us. They dismiss, minimize, or outright deny our reality. When you live in a body that doesn’t follow the rules—one that falters, that pains, that falls apart—you learn early on that you have to justify yourself constantly. *Yes, I am sick. No, I am not exaggerating. Yes, I really feel this way.* The gaslighting starts slowly, a subtle suggestion here, a skeptical look there, but soon enough, it compounds. And one day, you realize you’re the one doubting your own body.
The erosion of trust between doctor and patient is slow but insidious. It starts with small things—a physician suggesting your fatigue might just be stress, or a specialist telling you your pain is more psychological than physical. You fight to be taken seriously. You research your symptoms endlessly, comb through message boards, compare notes with others in the disabled and chronically ill community, just to find something, anything, that affirms you’re not imagining it. But self-advocacy in the face of constant dismissal becomes a full-time job, draining precious energy that should be spent on healing, on resting.
Medical PTSD is real, and it’s something many of us carry like a shadow. The anticipation of another doctor doubting me keeps me awake at night. The mere thought of entering an exam room raises my heart rate. I’ve sat in sterile waiting rooms, surrounded by pamphlets offering empty promises of “partnership” and “care,” wondering if this time will be different. If this doctor will listen, will hear, will believe me. And when they don’t, when they say something like, “Your tests are normal,” or “There’s nothing else I can do for you,” I retreat into myself, feeling smaller and more invisible.
The worst part is the long wait for answers, only to be given none. Three months to see a specialist, six months for a test, and when the appointment finally arrives, it’s over in fifteen minutes with no more clarity than before. You leave with the same symptoms, the same pain, and the growing weight of doubt: *Am I really sick? Maybe it is in my head.* The mind plays tricks on you when your body doesn’t cooperate.
Self-diagnosis, while controversial, has become a lifeline for so many of us in this community. Not because we want to “play doctor” or self-diagnose recklessly, but because it’s a survival mechanism. When no one else is listening, when no one else cares enough to dig deeper, we take on the role ourselves. We have to. The medical community dismisses us, and so we learn to trust our own research, our own instincts. And often, we’re right. We’re the ones who connect the dots. Yet even when we do, even when we go to a doctor armed with our findings, our suspicions, we’re still met with skepticism. “You shouldn’t trust everything you read on the internet,” they’ll say. But what other choice do we have when the system fails us so often?
The most radical act of care a doctor can offer is believing their patient. The medical community needs to learn that we are the experts in our own bodies. We don’t come into these appointments lightly. We’ve lived inside these bodies, fought with them, struggled with them, longer than any doctor has known us. When a doctor believes us, truly listens and says, “I believe you, and I’m here to help,” it’s an act of validation that can change everything. It’s a moment of partnership that feels rare but should be common. It’s the start of real care.
To my fellow chronically ill and disabled people, I want to say this: you are not alone in this fight. The doubt, the dismissal, the delays—none of these make your illness or your experiences any less real. You are valid. Your pain is real. Your struggle is real. And your life, your quality of life, matters. Do not let anyone make you feel like your illness is your fault, or that your fight isn’t worth fighting. Keep pushing for the care you deserve, for the answers that are out there. Advocate for yourself, connect with others in our community, and find strength in knowing that we are in this together.
Our lives are valuable, and we deserve dignity, respect, and care. You are not an imposter. You are worthy. Keep fighting—because you matter.
