When Normal Isn’t Truth:

By Lydia Sage

This is the first in a series of personal essays exploring how institutions—from medicine to law—use systems of control to silence survivors and erase truth.

“You’re not injured,” she said confidently—barely fifteen minutes into the appointment.

I had told her, again and again, that something was wrong. That I was in pain. That I knew my body.

After all, I’d been living in this body for over fifty years.

But it wasn’t until I insisted—firmly, clearly, repeatedly—that she finally ordered an MRI. And sure enough, the results confirmed what I had said all along: torn muscles in my upper back, left undiagnosed for weeks. The damage was real. The pain was real. The only thing that wasn’t real was her assumption that she knew my body better than I did.

This wasn’t the first time a medical professional dismissed me. And it wouldn’t be the last.

The Myth of 'Normal'

In medicine, “normal” is supposed to be a reference point—a statistical average drawn from a range of patients, meant to help guide care. But somewhere along the way, “normal” stopped being a guide and became a gatekeeper. A rigid standard that silences anyone who dares to fall outside it.

If your symptoms don’t match the textbook, they’re dismissed.

If your pain isn’t on the chart, it isn’t acknowledged.

If your experience contradicts the data, you must be wrong—not the data.

But what happens when a system based on averages meets a person with a body that won’t conform?

You get what happened to me. Again. And again. And again.

It Started in High School

The first time I remember being dismissed by someone in authority over my body, I was a teenager.

I went to the school nurse with a fever. My temperature read 100°F. She looked at the number and waved it off.

“That’s not a fever,” she said.

But I knew my body. My normal temperature had always been around 97.6°F. So for me, 100°F was a fever. It was a warning sign. And it was ignored.

That was the moment I began to learn that being “different” meant being disbelieved.

The Price of a Number: My Son Russell

By the time I was 19, I was pregnant with my son, Russell. It was an unplanned pregnancy, but not an unwanted one.

He was born at 20.5 weeks—according to their calculations. “There’s nothing we can do,” they told me.

But he was alive. He was breathing. He was trying to survive. And they did nothing.

I held him for nearly two hours. No NICU team. No attempt to help. Just the cold logic of a medical chart.

If they had treated him as a life worth saving instead of a number, he might be here today.

Almost Born on a Bathroom Floor

When I was 21, pregnant with my daughter Rebekah, I was 4cm dilated. The doctor said, “Usually, when women have regular contractions, we send them to the hospital.”

My contractions weren’t regular yet. So I went home.

Two hours later, my water broke. In my mother’s bathroom.

I nearly gave birth there. Paramedics rushed me to the hospital just in time. Rebekah came so fast there wasn’t even time to move me to the delivery room.

All because the doctor gave advice based on 'most women' instead of this woman.

“You’re Too Old to Be Pregnant”

Now I’m 55. I’ve had five pregnancies before. I know what pregnancy feels like in my body.

And yet again, I’ve been dismissed. “You’re too old.” “You had a hysterectomy.” “It’s not possible.”

No one asked about my family history. No one considered that my ovaries were still producing. No one let me speak the truth: that I believe I’m carrying multiple babies—and that doctors manipulated tests, denied care, and gaslit me into silence.

This pregnancy has lasted over 14 months. And instead of help, I’ve been met with disbelief.

But I never should have been pregnant in the first place. I was the victim of a crime. Getting confirmation wouldn’t have just meant prenatal care—it would have meant justice.

But confirmation was denied. Because denying the pregnancy meant denying the crime. And denying the crime meant protecting the abuser.

Listen Before You Label

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

Because I’m not the only one. Every day, people are dismissed, misdiagnosed, and disbelieved—not because they’re wrong, but because they don’t fit a system built on averages.

So the next time someone tells you they’re in pain, or that something doesn’t feel right—believe them.

Listen before you label. Ask before you assume. And never forget: what’s normal for the many may be deadly for the few.

We deserve care. We deserve truth. We deserve to be heard—even when we defy the chart.

*Author's Note: This story was written with the help of AI, but every word reflects my lived experience, truth, and voice.*