Well Sh*t

I wasn't put on this earth to shut up

"So I’m sharing now — my healing, my anger, my clarity — not for likes or pity, but because being heard shouldn’t be a revolutionary act.

I wasn't put on this earth to shut up

Let’s start here:

I didn’t want to share my healing journey. Oh no, I prefered to heal quietly in private with at least some sense of grace. And maybe with less snot. But that’s not what happened.

Because of this:

After months of feeling like I’d been hit by a truck driven by burnout itself, I dragged my aching, exhausted body to my GP. I told her I was tired. Not the “I stayed up too late watching Netflix” kind of tired but the deep-in-my-bones, soul-worn, dragging-my-corpse-through-the-day kind of tired. And I was in pain. Real, physical pain.

She looked at me, nodded, and said:

“Yep, it’s stress.”

“She said it was stress.

I said I felt it in my bones.”

Excuse me?!

I told her, very calmly, that I didn’t think it was stress.

She smiled that medical gaslighty smile and replied:

“Well, you’re not sleeping well, right? So it must be stress.”

I tried again. “I really don’t think it’s stress. I feel it in my bones.”

She didn’t budge and I was referred to a therapist.

Because clearly, when a woman says she’s tired and in pain, the correct response is: “Let’s talk about your feelings.”

Two months!!

That’s how long I waited.

One month to get in with the therapist. Another before the second session.

And yes, inevitably she came to the same conclusion as I did.

Because in our second session, the therapist looked at me and said, “You’re right. This isn’t stress.”

Finally. Someone heard me.

Around that time, I managed to squeeze in an appointment with a GP intern covering for my own doctor on a random Friday at 16:30. I was expecting the same dismissal.

Instead, she took one look at me and said:

“Tell me everything. Why did no one test you first?”

And then finally the plot twisted. She sent me for bloodwork immediately.

The results were pretty bad. Like “how-were-you-even-upright” bad.

Severe anemia. The kind that makes your cells cry for help and your brain forget what words are. And some nasty serious secondary problems because of it...

It was the beginning of a new chapter. The start of a very different chapter.

A brutal, beautiful one where I had to start using my voice to fight for myself. To unlearn the silence I’d been trained to survive with.

This whole “sharing my healing journey” thing? Yeah. It’s me re-learning how to use my voice.

And if my voice sounds a little tired, a little sarcastic, and slightly unhinged…That’s just healing, baby.

Why I'm sharing this

Because for most of my life, I believed my voice didn’t matter.

I believed that when I spoke up, I was being too much.

Too loud or too sensitive. Maybe even too dramatic.

So I learned to shut up, stay small and be strategic about it. To self-abandon in the name of not making anyone uncomfortable.

But guess what?

Screw that.

I wasn’t put on this floating chaos rock to be silent.

I was put here to speak, to write and to be heard. Not by everyone, but by the right ones.

And maybe, just maybe, that includes you.

So no, this blog isn’t some polished, pretty chronicle of “how I healed through gratitude and green juice.” It’s raw. It’s real. It’s filled with metaphors that don’t always make sense and sarcasm that definitely does. It’s where I speak my truth, finally. Not to convince anyone, but because my body has made it very clear that the price of staying silent is way too high.

This is my loud, messy reclamation. And it starts here.

If it resonates? Welcome.

If it doesn’t? That’s fine too.

Either way: I won’t be shutting up.

Not anymore.

Sanne

If this hit somewhere deep:

share it, save it, scream into a pillow.

I don’t need applause.

But I’m always here for real connection.