The Body Always Remembers

Have you ever had an encounter with a doctor that left you in tears? What am I saying—of course, you have.

A woman rests her head in her hand, visibly overwhelmed by stress, as thoughts swirl around her.

I’ve heard so many stories from patients who didn’t feel heard. Whose symptoms were brushed off. Who walked back to their cars, shut the door, and cried. And as I reflect on my own career, I know—painfully—that sometimes I’ve been the cause of that pain (though, thankfully, less and less with time and experience).

I don’t want to make excuses, but I will say this: the system is deeply, achingly broken. To make medicine less traumatic—for patients and for healthcare professionals—so much needs to change. But that’s a story for another time.

Last month, I had an abnormal mammogram.I’ll start by reassuring you: everything is okay. I do not have cancer.

When I first got the results, I wasn’t too worried. I’ve had abnormal mammograms before and even had a biopsy at twenty-one. This didn’t seem concerning. At the follow-up diagnostic mammogram, though, the mass was still there. The radiologist recommended a biopsy.

As we talked, I asked about calcifications (none), spiculation (none), the shape of the borders (smooth), and whether my new hormone therapy might explain the increased breast density (yes). Her answers reassured me—I was 90% sure it wasn’t cancer.

Still, I scheduled the biopsy for a few weeks later. And though my logical mind was calm, my body wasn’t. By Saturday, I could feel the anxiety building—restless skin, that low hum of dread. I knew it wasn’t about cancer. Was it about the procedure?

The morning of the biopsy, I sipped a chai latte with pumpkin spice, trying to comfort myself with small rituals. The clinic waiting room was full of women—some with head scarves, some in work clothes, one with a chemo port peeking from her pajama top. I studied them all and wondered about their stories.

Then it was my turn.

The medical assistant led me to a small locker room with warm lighting and wooden lockers. She asked me to change into a gown—of course, I picked one that was too small. The buttons barely met. Too embarrassed to grab another, I crossed my arms and tried to appear composed.

When the nurse came in, she explained the procedure. I nodded along, eventually revealing that I was a physician myself. Her tone shifted—her words became more technical yet remained warm. We spoke the same language, but my body stayed tense.

In the procedure room, the light was soft, not harsh. The staff moved with quiet competence and easy chatter, gathering supplies, checking names, confirming the site. Slowly, my anxiety began to fade under their calm.

Then the radiologist entered—friendly, about my age—and a female student followed her. Soon, there were six women in the room: the doctor, the student, two nurses, the assistant, and me. Conversation flowed easily. I began to feel held by the energy in that room—competence, care, and quiet solidarity.

And then, unexpectedly, a wave of memory hit me.

I was twenty-one again. In a sterile room. A male radiologist performing an ultrasound. Cold gel. My breast exposed. No explanation. Just the brisk, detached rhythm of a procedure. He proceeded to do the biopsy in a cold, efficient manner. I don’t know now how much of that memory is literal truth. Maybe there was an assistant. Maybe the gel wasn’t cold. But what I do know is that I felt alone. Exposed. Scared.

That’s what my body remembered. That’s where the dread had been hiding all along. In unvalidated feelings from three decades ago.

When I came back to the present moment, I saw six women moving gently around me—each one with purpose, each one part of a circle of care. One had her hand on my shoulder. Another was ready with the specimen container. The student watched, absorbing everything. And I realized: this time, I wasn’t alone.

The conversation turned lighthearted. We laughed about my knockoff Ugg boots. I told stories about my kids in college. They sympathized as we talked about the state of healthcare. And when it was over, part of me didn’t want to leave.

Because what I felt in that room wasn’t just relief—it was healing. Healing from the quiet trauma of a younger version of me who once felt unseen and unprotected. Healing from the brokenness of a system that too often forgets the power of presence.

Six women. One room.

And for the first time in nearly three decades, I felt whole again.

A group of women stand together in a show of mutual support and camaraderie, exemplifying the strength of community.