I had a years-long period when my functionality was so low that it was hard for me to leave the house. I was severely isolated by disability from repeated medical harm. My relationships with practitioners became my default primary social contact. That meant the quality of those relationships directly shaped whether my system could move toward or away from homeostasis.

One pain specialist walked into the exam room and, without asking or even telling me what she was doing, started poking around on my back, questioning me, “Does this hurt?” Her overriding my agency had cued huge danger to my nervous system. “I don’t know,” I kept telling her, “I’m so dissociated I can’t feel anything.” She continued to poke, oblivious. I left in a daze and decided to never return to her practice.  

I don’t care about a practitioner’s credentials if they assume they know more about my lived experience in my body than I do. From a Relational Neuroscience view, every interaction is a relational encounter that either supports regulation or triggers protection. When authority takes precedence over lived experience, it registers as a threat. After repeated harm at the hands of caregivers—including non-consensual surgery condoned and defended by the state of Delaware—my nervous system was always on guard. I desperately needed steady, reliable relational experiences to stop the pattern of harm.

My condition was so desperate that I only survived because I had spent years studying Relational Neuroscience. I understood that I needed repeated, reliable exposure to safe relationships to restore my capacity for connection. Disabled and isolated, I didn’t have the luxury of casual social encounters. My practitioners became my social world. If I hadn’t recognized what my nervous system required and how to identify practitioners who could engage in safe connections, I would have died. This understanding allowed me to restore my social engagement system to the degree I have today, where I am building more relationships outside of medicine and enjoying the positive effects.

Fortunately, my next pain specialist was far better than the one who poked me. The doctor walked in and asked, “What’s going on, and how can I help you?” He listened, answered my questions, and performed the bilateral occipital block I had been seeking for pain and flashback relief. It’s been almost four years since that initial appointment, and he’s still my regular pain specialist. He attunes, listens with compassion, offers empathy, and never invalidates.

After medical trauma, finding a new practitioner is a high-stakes risk. Every intake brings the potential for a new rupture in trust. I built my team based on one non-negotiable element: they had to believe me about my lived experience, even when it conflicted with their training. When a practitioner can stay with my reality without overriding it, my system can begin to reorganize. This safe contact creates a ripple effect, restoring stability that extends far beyond the appointment and into the rest of my life.

I share this so you don’t have to figure it out on your own. Once you have the concept for this dynamic, you can recognize when an interaction makes safety impossible. You can start making different choices about with whom you allow close contact. By carefully selecting a team that sees you as a human, you provide your nervous system with some of the relational attunement it needs for health and well-being.