Tag: disability experience

🌿The Part of Me You Haven’t Fully Met Yet

April 27, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

Most people who know me through this blog know me through words. They know my thoughts, my reflections, my questions, and some of the roads life has taken me down. Writing has been one of the clearest ways I’ve learned to make sense of the world.

But words have never been the only language I speak.

Photography Has Always Been Part of Me

For a long time, photography has been another way I process life. Sometimes there are things that cannot be explained nearly as well as they can be noticed: the way morning fog settles over trees, sunlight breaking through storm clouds, an old barn standing quietly against the years, or the stillness of a landscape that says more than noise ever could.

Photography has always drawn me toward those moments.

Years ago, I earned a degree in photography. Like many things in life, though, gifts and passions do not always travel in straight lines. Confidence can be shaken. Life can interrupt. Hard seasons can make parts of us grow quiet for a while. Some things we love get placed on shelves—not because they no longer matter, but because we forget they still belong to us.

That has been true for me in some ways.

And yet, even when it was quieter, photography never really left. I still noticed the sky. I still paid attention to changing seasons. I still felt that pull to preserve something fleeting before it disappeared. I still found myself reaching for whatever camera I had in my hand, even if it was only a phone, trying to hold onto beauty for one more moment.

Lately, I’ve been reminded that creativity does not need permission to return. It does not need perfect timing, perfect health, perfect confidence, or perfect equipment. It only needs room to breathe again.

So this is simply me making room.

I Didn’t Find My Way Back Alone

While Deer Ridge Images carries my name and vision, it would not exist in the same way without my wife.

She has encouraged me to create again when I had nearly buried that part of myself. She reminded me that art still mattered. That I still mattered.

Some of the images featured here were taken by her—including the rain-soaked shed photo and the Milky Way image. Those photographs represent more than scenery. They represent partnership, patience, and the way someone can help you find your way back to yourself.

So while Deer Ridge Images began with me, it continues because of us.

What Kind of Photography I’ll Be Sharing

From time to time, I’ll be sharing photography here as well—images of landscapes, weather, quiet places, rural scenes, wildlife, and the kinds of moments that have always spoken to me. Not because they are flawless. Not because I have something to prove. But because they are real, and because they are part of me.

White-tailed deer in a grassy farm field at sunrise with soft morning light, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Morning on the farm, where deer were never strangers and beauty rarely needed announcing.

Macro sunflower photograph with vivid yellow petals and detailed seed center against clear blue sky by Deer Ridge Images. — Taken on the farm, where some of my favorite stories began.

Portrait of a gray wolf pup with soft fur and alert eyes resting outdoors, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Maya as a pup—one of the wolves I helped care for, and a moment I’ll never forget. At the International Wolf Center, Ely, MN 2004

Rustic wooden shed in a grassy field with colorful fall hillside in the background on a rainy day, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Taken during an anniversary day trip in the rain—one of those moments worth jumping out of the car for.

Green northern lights over farmland and open night sky on the family farm, photographed by Deer Ridge Images. — Northern lights over the farm—proof that wonder can appear right where your roots began.

This blog has always been a place for honesty. Sharing this side of myself feels like another kind of honesty.

Thank you for being here long enough to meet another part of who I am. 🌿

A lit candle beside a pink lotus flower reflected in calm water with the words “Seeing It Clearly,” symbolizing gentle self-awareness, reflection, and healing.

🌿 Field Notes: When Reality Reflected Back

April 20, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week, I found myself looking at my life through a lens I usually avoid.

Not because I’m in denial.

Not because I’m pretending everything is fine.

But because when you live with limitations long enough, they become normal to you.

You adapt.

You compensate.

You learn workarounds.

You keep going.

And after a while, what would shock someone else just becomes Tuesday.

After completing two disability applications back to back, reading an assessment from the county, and hearing my therapist say I shouldn’t have much trouble qualifying because of my very significant physical and mental limitations…

I had a moment.

A real one.

Not a “I hate myself” moment.

Not shame.

More like:

Oh shit.

I didn’t realize it was this bad.

There’s something strange about seeing your reality written plainly on paper.

Things you’ve minimized.

Things you’ve pushed through.

Things you’ve explained away.

Suddenly listed clearly and clinically.

And for a moment, you see yourself from the outside.

I think many of us do this.

We become so used to carrying what we carry that we stop calling it heavy.

We become so used to struggling that we stop calling it struggle.

We become so used to surviving that we forget survival has a cost.

So this week, I’m holding one gentle truth:

If your life has become hard in ways you barely notice anymore…

That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.

It means you adapted.

And adaptation is not the same thing as ease.

Maybe some of us need to look at ourselves more kindly.

More honestly.

More gently.

Not with criticism.

But with compassion for everything we’ve been carrying while still trying to keep moving.

💛 Sometimes the clearest reflection isn’t cruel.It’s compassionate.

A soft blue background with the words “A Quiet Week,” featuring a resting dog, smiling flowers, and a small leaf, representing rest and slowing down.

🌿 Field Notes: Paperwork Week

April 13, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week has been filled with paperwork.

The kind that sits on the table and quietly takes up space in your mind, even when you’re not actively working on it.

Social Security sent another packet, and right now, that’s where most of my energy is going.

So if things feel a little quieter here…

that’s why.

Some weeks are for writing.

Some weeks are for getting through forms, appointments, and the invisible work that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

I’ll be back soon.

Just… one page at a time.

💛 Progress doesn’t always look like productivity.

Warm, lived-in living room with soft light and a cozy, slightly messy space, reflecting a quiet, personal moment

⭐ When It Didn’t Come Out Clean: A Disability Assessment and Letting Myself Be Seen

March 23, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

I went into the assessment thinking I needed to hold it together.

Answer clearly. Stay composed. Explain things in a way that made sense.

Not too much. Not too emotional. Just enough.

I’ve gotten pretty good at that over the years — finding a way to explain my life so it sounds manageable. Something people can understand without sitting in it too long.

But this time… it didn’t really work like that.

She started asking questions about my day-to-day. About what I can do. What I can’t. What things actually look like at home.

And I tried to answer the way I usually do. Clean. Simple. Contained.

But somewhere in the middle of it, my body had other plans.

The words didn’t come out the way I expected them to. My chest tightened, my throat closed up, and before I could stop it, I was crying.

Not dramatically. Not uncontrollably.

Just… enough that I couldn’t pretend everything was fine.

I remember thinking, this is not how this is supposed to go.

I was supposed to explain things. Not… show them.

There were moments where I couldn’t find the words I wanted. Where my brain just stalled out. And my wife stepped in — filling in the gaps, explaining things I couldn’t quite get out.

Not over me. Just… alongside me.

And honestly, I think that mattered more than anything I could have said perfectly.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to present my life in a neat, understandable way.

There wasn’t going to be a version of this that sounded “okay.”

And maybe that was the point.

Because when it was over, she said she was going to recommend PCA services.

Which means help.

Actual, tangible help.

Not because I explained things well.

But because, for once, I didn’t.

I didn’t hold it together.

I didn’t translate everything into something easier to hear.

I just… showed what it looks like.

And somehow, that was enough.

And I think I’m starting to understand that maybe it doesn’t have to come out clean to be real.

Maybe it just… has to be honest.

Have you ever had a moment where you couldn’t hold it together the way you thought you should?

A sterile hospital hallway with closed doors, overlaid with a faint image of a person’s eye, suggesting fear, trauma, and medical experiences. — A clinical, empty hospital corridor overlaid with the faint image of a woman's eye, symbolizing the fear, dismissal, and emotional toll of seeking medical help while being ignored and gaslit.

The Doctor Who Looked Like Death

November 28, 2025 / Sandi

⭐Adenomyosis Series – Part 4.

The Doctor Who Looked Like Death and Treated Me Like I Didn’t Matter

By the time I met this next doctor, I was already worn down. Years of constant bleeding, chronic pain, and medical dismissal had left me exhausted — but still hopeful that maybe this doctor would finally listen.

Instead, I walked straight into one of the most dehumanizing appointments of my entire journey.

⚰️ The Doctor Who Looked Like Death — Literally

It sounds dramatic, but it’s the truth: this doctor looked eerily similar to Death from Supernatural — pale, expressionless, and cold. And unfortunately, his personality matched his appearance.

He didn’t greet me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even make eye contact.

His body language said everything: I was an inconvenience.

♿ His Disgust Was Noticeable the Moment I Needed Help

Because of my disability, I needed assistance getting onto the exam table. Most providers are compassionate.

Not him.

He sighed loudly, placed his hand on my arm with visible reluctance, and hoisted me up like he couldn’t get the task over with fast enough. I felt less like a patient and more like a burden he was forced to tolerate.

It was clear that he found me disgusting. He barely wanted to touch me at all.

I remember thinking:

“If helping me onto the table bothers him this much, what happens next?”

“It didn’t matter that I was in pain. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want children. What mattered to him was a hypothetical man I hadn’t even met.”

The Comment That Still Haunts Me

As I described my symptoms — the constant bleeding, the pain, the failed treatments — he barely listened. When I told him I wanted a hysterectomy, he cut me off.

His response:

“I’d rather do a D&C on you every month than perform a hysterectomy. It doesn’t matter that you don’t want children. What about your future husband?”

I felt my hope collapse.

My pain didn’t matter. My autonomy didn’t matter.

My body belonged, apparently, to a man who didn’t even exist.

🧊 No Empathy. No Solutions. No Humanity.

He didn’t offer alternatives. He didn’t acknowledge my suffering. He didn’t ask a single question that indicated he cared.

He simply shut the door on my medical reality.

💔 The Damage That Words Can Do

I walked out of that office feeling:

humiliated

devalued

dismissed

and convinced that maybe my pain was invisible to everyone but me.

For the first time, I wondered if I was meant to live like this forever.

🔄 The Only Good Part of That Appointment? I Left Him Behind

I didn’t stay with him. I went back to a previous provider, because even imperfect care felt safer than the cold hostility in that room.

I didn’t know it then, but leaving that office was the first step toward eventually finding the doctor who would save my life.

In the moment, though, all I knew was this:

If this was what medical care looked like, I was on my own.

A woman standing in a hospital hallway looking down with a sad, distant expression, symbolizing pain and medical dismissal. — When your pain is real, but the doctors act like it isn’t.

The Pain No One Took Seriously

November 25, 2025 / Sandi

Trigger warning: medical gaslighting, reproductive pain, procedural trauma

⭐PART 3 — The First Time I Tried to Get Help (And How Everything Got Even Worse)

When I finally told a doctor anything about my bleeding, I was twenty-eight — and honestly, I only did it because I was terrified something inside me was going very, very wrong. I’d spent almost two decades silently bleeding every day and pretending it was normal. My body was screaming, and I had run out of ways to ignore it.

The first gynecologist I saw actually believed me. That alone felt like a miracle.

She diagnosed me with PCOS (which was true), and prescribed birth control. And for the first time in my entire life, my period stopped.

For almost a month, I tasted something I’d never had before: relief.

Hope.

A glimpse of what life might be like if I wasn’t constantly bleeding or bracing against pain.

But then came sugar-pill week… and everything exploded.

The bleeding barreled back like a horror movie scene — heavier, angrier, unstoppable. And once it came back, it refused to stop. Even when I restarted the birth control. Even when I prayed and begged and tried to hold myself together.

That doctor believed me… but she was nearly impossible to get into. So I went to another clinic, hoping for help.

And that’s where everything started to go terribly wrong.

The IUD That Changed Everything

The next gynecologist cared, but she didn’t quite listen. She was dismissive but she did offer what she called a “solution”: an IUD.

She said it would “calm my uterus.”She said it would “help the bleeding.”She said the pain I felt during insertion was “normal.”

But the moment that device went in, I knew — deep in my bones — something was wrong.

Leaving the clinic, I couldn’t walk more than a few steps at a time. It felt like a chainsaw was tearing me apart from the inside. Every few feet I had to stop, grip something, breathe through the agony. I couldn’t stand up straight. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t move without feeling like my uterus was shredding itself from the inside.

And when I went back to her later (a month later), doubled over in pain, barely able to walk, she brushed me off with the same dismissive tone:

“Spotting is good. That means it’s helping.”

It wasn’t helping. It was destroying me.

I endured that nightmare for 3–4 months before finally going to my primary doctor and begged her to take it out. She listened — gently — and removed it.

I screamed. Not metaphorically. I screamed from the pain of removal while she stopped to soothe me through it.

And the moment it was out? I felt immediate relief.

But still not normal. Not even close.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, that IUD had perforated my uterus. And that damage would haunt me for years.

The Doctor Who Blamed Everything on My Weight

After the IUD ordeal, I ended up in yet another gynecologist’s office, desperate for someone — anyone — to take me seriously.

Instead, she told me everything I’d gone through was because of my weight.

Not the constant bleeding. Not the years of pain. Not the fact that I couldn’t walk upright for months, with that IUD inside me. I still had issues walking for years afterwards.

Just my weight.

And then she said something I’ll never forget:

“If I give you this shot and your period stops, then I’ll believe you.”

As if my suffering needed to be proven to her.

The shot she gave me was known to cause bone loss and tooth deterioration — but I didn’t know that then. I was desperate, scared, and conditioned to believe doctors always know best.

So I agreed.

And everything spiraled.

The bleeding became catastrophic. I made multiple ER trips because I was so pale my mom followed me around the house afraid I would collapse. I was losing blood so rapidly that I nearly needed a transfusion. The pain was unbearable.

And the shot? It damaged my teeth. I’ve lost multiple teeth because of this shot.

Permanent injury — because a doctor wanted to “test” whether my suffering was real.

The ER doctors saw me. They helped me. They were the first to look genuinely worried.

But this gynecologist? She dismissed every single symptom and blamed my weight the entire time.

This was the beginning of the medical gaslighting that would consume the next few years of my life — and it nearly destroyed me long before adenomyosis ever did.

And unbelievably…

The worst was still ahead.

Woman sitting alone on the floor with her head buried in her arms, symbolizing hidden pain and isolation. — Hiding the pain no one could see — and carrying it alone.

The Pain I Carried Alone

November 20, 2025 / Sandi

⭐ PART 2 — The Years I Hid Everything

I look back now and realize just how young I was when everything started. Nine or ten years old — still a kid, still figuring out the world — when I passed a clot big enough to scare me, and then… nothing. No period again until I was about thirteen or fourteen.

And then it didn’t stop.

Most people get a week. I got years.

A day or two off, here and there, like the universe tossing me scraps just to keep me going — but mostly, it was constant. Heavy. Daily. Overwhelming.

And no one knew.

I wore dark clothes because I could bleed through them and no one would notice it. I learned to move carefully, sit carefully, stand carefully. I memorized where every bathroom was at school and timed my path between classes so no one would follow me in. I learned to fold towels in my laundry basket in a way that hid the fact they weren’t for drying off — they were for bleeding on.

I felt disgusting. I felt ashamed. And the hardest part? I didn’t even know why I felt ashamed.

It’s strange how kids can take on blame they were never meant to carry. Part of me thought something was wrong with me. Another part — the one wounded by being molested by my grandfather when I was seven — thought I somehow deserved it. Trauma makes you believe terrible things.

School didn’t help. The one time menstruation was mentioned, a teacher said, “If you lose more than a few tablespoons of blood, something is wrong.”

I sat there thinking, I lose that much just standing up.

But I didn’t say anything. Not because I liked the pain. Not because I wasn’t scared.

I didn’t speak up because silence was safer than shame.

And the pain — back then I thought that was “normal.” I’d pop pain meds like they were candy just to get through the day. It didn’t stop the pain, but it dulled it enough that I could pretend I was like everyone else.

I wasn’t in relationships. I wasn’t dating. I wasn’t doing any of the normal teenager things. I was too busy trying to survive my own body.

By the time I finally told a doctor anything — even the smallest sliver of truth — I was twenty-eight.

That’s almost two decades of bleeding daily. Two decades of hiding. Two decades of thinking no one wanted to know.

But the truth was simpler and sadder than that:

No one asked.

What’s sadder, I’m not sure if I would’ve told the truth if they did ask. In my eyes, being silent and acting like everything was normal, was better than facing the truth, that I was anything but normal.

So I kept surviving quietly, because that’s what I had taught myself to do.

Young woman covering her face in frustration while a calendar overlay symbolizes a period that never ends. — I thought my period would stop. It didn’t — and no one told me that wasn’t normal.

When My Period Never Stopped

November 18, 2025 / Sandi

How a normal beginning became 24 years of silent suffering

⭐Part 1 — When It All Began

I was nine years old when my period first arrived — early, confusing, and nothing like what anyone had prepared me for. At first, it felt like I was joining some mysterious club of “womanhood” long before my friends. But within months, that feeling faded. My period didn’t just come early… it came wrong.

After that first year, it stopped. Completely. No warning, no explanation. And for a while, I thought maybe I was just one of those lucky girls who didn’t have to deal with it. I didn’t understand enough to question it — and I didn’t tell anyone about the change.

But then it started again.

And this time…

It didn’t stop.

Not for a week.

Not for a month.

Not for years.

What began as spotting became bleeding. What became bleeding became my normal. I was still just a kid — too young to know that the word “constant” should never be used with “period.” Too young to understand that something was terribly, unnervingly wrong.

But I did understand something else very clearly: I had to hide it.

So I did.

I hid the pads. I hid the blood. I hid the fear. I hid the fact that my body didn’t feel like other girls’ bodies.

I hid the pain too — although in hindsight, that early pain was nothing compared to the horror that would come later. Back then, it was just… uncomfortable. Scary. Wrong. But not yet the chainsaw agony I would someday learn to associate with my uterus.

At the time, I didn’t know that hiding symptoms is something so many kids do when they don’t understand their own bodies or fear getting in trouble or don’t want to be a burden. No one had ever told me what “normal” was supposed to be — but something inside me whispered that what I was experiencing wasn’t safe to talk about.

So I pretended everything was fine.

I changed pads in secret. I scrubbed blood out of underwear quietly. I learned to move carefully so no one would notice. I became a master at minimizing myself.

And all the while, the bleeding continued. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year.

I grew up thinking this was just my body. This was just how periods worked for me. This was just something I had to manage alone. That I somehow deserved what was happening to me.

I had no idea that this was the beginning of a 24–year nightmare. No idea that this was adenomyosis. No idea that my uterus was already declaring war on me long before I understood what pain really was.

At thirteen years old, I just knew one thing: I was bleeding every day, and I had to keep it a secret.

Everything that came after… I could’ve never imagined.