Nothing Is Wasted: How Medical Gaslighting, Celiac Disease, and Deep Suffering Led Me to My Purpose

I am a firm believer that before we came here, we knew what would happen in our lives from our sunrise to our sunset.

I believe we sat with God and learned the outline of our lives. We knew every triumph, every tragedy, every heartbreak, every love story, every lesson we would encounter. We’d know what our assignment would be. What we’re supposed to learn and what we’re supposed to share.

And somehow, in a way our human minds can barely comprehend, we agreed. I believe we met each other's souls before arriving here. The ones who would help us. The ones who would heal us. The ones who would mirror us. The ones who would teach us. And yes, even the ones who would hurt us.

I imagine we sat together and accepted the roles we would play in one another's stories. Some would arrive as guides. Some as companions. Some as catalysts. Some as wounds.

Then our assignment began.

God sent our souls into this world to be born, to live, to seek, to learn.

Earth is the ultimate classroom.

While religions often argue over which path is right, I sometimes think they're like children explaining a playground disagreement. Each sees only part of the picture. Yet if you look closely, most faith traditions carry echoes of the same message: Seek wisdom. Share what you've learned. Let go of your ego. Love one another. Seek God. Grow.

The challenge, of course, is that loving is easy when people are kind. It's much harder when they aren't. How do we love the person who hurt us the most? The person who caused the deepest wound? How do we love someone whose actions changed the course of our lives forever?

I think that's one of the greatest assignments we are given. Not whether we can love when it's easy. Whether we can remain loving after we've been hurt. What did the pain teach you? What did the loss reveal? Who did you become because of it?

Staying loving after the hurt might be one of the greatest acts of strength a person can achieve. I took hit after hit beginning around age four. There were countless moments throughout my life when people would wonder how I kept getting back up. Looking back, there were seasons where it felt like I had used up nine lives and somehow found a tenth.

But it wasn't until I experienced a profound hurt from someone who should have been a healer that my awakening began. A doctor. I was a young mother sitting across from a medical professional, desperate for answers. I had lost 92 pounds. I didn't know what foods were hurting me. I didn't know what was happening to my body. I was scared. Exhausted. Desperate.

When I tried to explain what I was experiencing, I was met with annoyance.

"That's ridiculous. Just eat."

But they weren’t there in the middle of the night. They weren’t lying on the floor at 2 a.m. They weren’t the ones throwing up. They weren’t experiencing the agony. The blurred vision. The weakness. The feeling of watching and feeling a body slowly fail. All while bloodwork was “normal.”

At another appointment, I begged for guidance. Before I could even finish my sentence, they interrupted.

"I don't do natural. I do medicine. I prescribe. You'll just have to find your new normal. Sometimes this infection (what they were treating me for) ruins people."

Then they walked out. I left feeling abandoned. Hopeless. Broken.

The truth is, I almost ended my life after that appointment. What kind of future exists when you're in constant pain and can't even eat without fear? Food is how we sustain. What we need to survive. And at that point. I wasn’t eating anything. My daughters were the reason I stayed. They were the reason I kept going.

Eventually, the answer came. An endoscopy revealed Marsh Grade 3A Celiac Disease. After eight months of searching. After 10 to 12 weeks of powerful antibiotics. After an experimental antibody infusion treatment.

So much suffering. So much fear. So much unnecessary pain. For such an unnecessary amount of time.

When the diagnosis finally arrived, I was scheduled for a follow-up with the gastroenterologist to review the results. They canceled. They refused to see me. Because the infection wasn’t really the issue. In hindsight, they treated me for an “infection” that didn't need treating. Those antibiotics weren't just unnecessary; they woke a sleeping giant that never needed to be awakened.

Instead, they passed me off to their physician assistant. No accountability. No acknowledgment. No apology.

Just silence.

For a long time, I carried anger about that. Maybe part of me still does. Because how do you forgive something that changed your life so dramatically?

This is where my faith comes back in.

What if this was an assignment?

What if, before we arrived here, that doctor and I agreed to play these roles for one another? Not because the suffering was good. Not because the pain was deserved. But because something meaningful could emerge from it.

The seed they planted through this journey became the beginning of my seeking. Knowledge. Questions. Curiosity. Purpose.

I began asking: How can I help people avoid what happened to me? How can I share what I've learned? How can I help someone feel seen when they're suffering?

How can I be the person I needed?

The woman I am today exists because of that journey.

Not despite it. Because of it. There is good in that.

And there is another layer to the story. The same doctor who sent me down countless dead ends also referred me to an infectious disease specialist. That physician ordered a CT scan. And that CT scan discovered a splenic artery aneurysm.

A finding that may very well have saved my life. That realization changed something for me too. The journey was painful. The suffering was real. The anger is real. But so is the purpose.

Everything became part of the lesson. Part of the story. Part of who I am becoming.

One day, I hope I will fully release my anger. One day, I hope forgiveness arrives completely. I'm not there yet. But I am closer than I was. And for now, that is enough. Because if this journey has taught me anything, it's this: Nothing is wasted. Not by God. Not in this life. Not even our deepest pain.