This week arrived like a storm we already knew by heart,
yet somehow… it carried a different kind of wind.

For years, they told us our pain was imagined,
that our wounds were illusions,
that our illnesses lived only in our minds.
Those words carved scars we still carry
scars that whisper warnings
even when no danger is present.

Three years have passed since that chapter closed,
but trust… trust takes longer to grow back
than a body takes to break.

And then came Sunday.

My body folded into anaphylaxis,
the EpiPen pulled me back,
and uncertainty pushed me forward
calling specialists who would not help,
sending ambulances instead of answers.
Yet in the regional hospital,
kindness met me at the door.
Nurses with gentle hands,
a doctor who spoke like a soft landing:

“None of this is your fault.
You are welcome here.
We will learn together.”

For a moment, I felt the world loosen its fists.

But Monday came with another blow.
A call from school, a son in shock,
another ambulance racing against time.
All the old fears returned
the ones that ask whether anyone will listen,
whether we will once again be asked to prove our reality.

Yet when I arrived,
my child pale beneath the monitors,
something extraordinary happened:

We did not have to fight.
Not this time.
Not in that room.
Not with those people.

They already understood.
They already cared.
They already believed.

And I… I didn’t know how to stand
in a place where compassion came freely.
I felt unsteady, unfamiliar with relief.

The next day, he was home again.
And suddenly our phone rang with kindness
offers of meals, ears, hands, hearts.
Teachers, caregivers, friends
all reaching toward us
instead of away.

After fourteen years of walking alone,
this flood of support felt surreal
like stepping into warm water
after years of winter cold.

They say
“This is normal.
This is how care is meant to be.”
It still feels strange.
Beautifully strange.

But perhaps this is healing
not a single moment,
but a slow unlearning of fear,
a gentle relearning of trust.

Maybe this week was not a storm after all,
but a quiet opening in the sky
a reminder that even the wounded
can find their way back
to light.

A poem by Debbie Hellenbrand

Patient Advocate & Professional Speaker

January 2026