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.

I wanted to heal quietly. In private. Gracefully. Preferably with less snot and existential dread.

But that’s not what happened.

What happened is 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 — 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:

“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. 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 here’s the kicker:

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. The same “maybe do some yoga” energy.

Instead, she took one look at me and said:

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

And just like that, the plot twisted.

She sent me for bloodwork immediately.

And the results?

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 — loudly, awkwardly, repeatedly — 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.

Truthbombs I learned the hard way

"It’s probably just stress" is medical code for “I don’t know what to do with this.”
Your body knows before your mind can explain. Trust it.
Silence is a survival skill. But eventually, it becomes a cage.
Some people will see your pain and walk away. Others will say “Tell me everything.” Keep the latter.
You don’t owe anyone pretty healing.
You’re allowed to be loud, tired, emotional — and still be right.

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. Too sensitive. 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. 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.

I Wasn't Put on This Earth to Shut Up

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