I remember the time I went to the ER 3 months postpartum because I couldn’t stop vomiting and my chest felt tight. I kept telling them: this isn’t anxiety. Something is wrong. The nurse glanced at my chart and said, “A lot of new moms feel overwhelmed.” A resident came in, barely looked at me, and said, “It’s probably a panic attack. Try to relax.” They left me in a hallway bed. No monitor. No urgency. Just that look that says you’re being dramatic. I whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out.” He laughed and said, “You’re safe here. You’re not dying.” Ten minutes later I stood up and collapsed. Suddenly there were doctors everywhere. Suddenly they checked my oxygen. Suddenly they rushed me to imaging. CT scan: pulmonary embolism. Blood clots in my lungs. The same doctor who told me to “relax” came back acting shocked. He said, “Good thing you came in.” I looked at him and thought: I didn’t just come in. I begged to be taken seriously. Why am I telling you this? Because if I didn’t collapse in front of them, I genuinely think I would’ve been sent home with “anxiety” and a pamphlet about breathing exercises