Six years ago, a gynecologist at ChristianaCare cut away healthy tissue without my consent. That egregious violation of informed consent fractured my sense of safety in a medical environment, my relationship with my body, and my ability to trust that any healthcare professional would see me as human rather than a set of symptoms or a body to do unto. What followed was a cascade of medical and psychiatric harm: gaslighting, dismissal, and attempts to contain my distress with pathologizing labels and harmful pills instead of care and repair.

It’s taken me years to rebuild any sense of trust, and it’s still fragile. But I’ve learned what makes healing possible. It starts with people who can connect.

I now have four healthcare practitioners who hug me. This isn’t sentimental or a token gesture. It’s a mutual exchange rooted in real relational presence. These are professionals who have done the deep work to show up with attunement, empathy, and the ability to witness my experience without trying to fix it, explain it away, or turn it into a diagnostic code.

The hug is part of the treatment plan that potentiates their skill and knowledge. Each hug is a direct expression of their capacity to be with me, as I am, in this body that people in their field have so profoundly harmed.

Every hug says, “I see you. I believe you. You are safe with me.” And my nervous system responds with a small release of the defensive tension I’ve had to carry for 7 years to survive contact with the so-called healthcare system. When someone can meet me with that much clarity and presence, my body shifts toward homeostasis. There’s a deep exhale that travels through tissue, memory, and selfhood.

This kind of contact is particular to each relationship. The effectiveness of the hug comes from everything that surrounds it: the tone of voice, the way they’ve listened to me over time, their ability to acknowledge harm without defensiveness. It works because we’ve built something real. It works because they show up with their whole self, not wearing a professional mask.

And it’s not one-sided. I’ve had practitioners tell me that the hugs we share bring something good to them, too, a reminder of why they went into this work. Mutual regulation isn’t just a theory. It’s something that happens between two people who dare to be present together.

But I had to fight hard to get here. I’ve learned, again and again, that if a practitioner can’t attune, can’t empathize, can’t witness without flinching or turning away, they are underqualified to work with me. That’s not judgment, but a fact rooted in survival. If they’re disconnected from themselves, they will be disconnected from me. And that disconnection always causes harm.

I’ve stopped trying to bridge the gap. I’ve stopped translating myself for practitioners who can’t or won’t meet me halfway. That effort used to cost me dearly, burning energy I couldn’t spare, leaving me feeling more alone than before. I’ve learned that their inability to connect isn’t personal. It’s often the result of the environments they work within, the logical consequence of rushed appointments, systems driven by profit, documentation demands, and insurance constraints. But knowing that doesn’t make the harm any less real. Disconnection still lands in my body like a blow.

Now, I only work with people who can be fully present. People who can believe me with their whole nervous system. Those who can repair when something goes wrong. I must work with people who not only tolerate my truth but also value it.

Those hugs are earned. They’re built on trust, time, and courage. And they remind me that healing isn’t a solo act. It’s something we co-create, one moment of connection at a time.