A Masterclass in Unhinged Autonomy

Battling medical gaslighting, shooting my shot, and taking up space turning fifty.

A powerful sorceress standing in a circle of light, surrounded by swirling cosmic energy and autumn leaves under a crescent moon.

“Your hip has become your life,” the ortho pontificated heading towards the door, clearly done with me, walking right past my crutch taking up real estate against the wall. “You just need to walk. Go to PT and stabilize. You don’t need another surgery.”

Was he for real? I was trapped in some alternate universe in this shoebox of a room, screaming into a void he was immune to. I choked back sobs while I tearfully picked at nonexistent lint on my leggings. I could barely make eye contact when my voice shook, “I just want my life back. I need a hip replacement. I don’t know why you aren’t hearing me.” I was feeling the freeze in my body, wanting to be a tiny ball. Some part of me wanted to verbally slap him.

Who the hell was this guy telling me to “just walk” when I was on a crutch? I was slumped on the exam table when he reached for the doorknob. He paused a beat, making his parting shot land like scalding water. “You know… you just need to be more positive. You need to find joy. Maybe you should volunteer.”

Then he was gone.

Fuck. You.

You gobbleturd dressed in scrubs.

I didn’t even wait for the nurse to come back to me. I needed out or they’d be scraping my body off the floor stuck in a fetal position. I crutch-walked myself as fast as I could down the hall. It’s not the exit a woman dreams of when she wants to make a point. To make matters worse, the doctor was in the hallway talking to a colleague, GobbleTurd the Second. I was stopped by the nurse to hand me papers. Now I had to pause in my manic walk to juggle my crutch, in order to grab my purse with my forty ounce water bottle holding on for dear life in it. Why do I always go for the big emotional support water bottle instead of a smaller one, I thought to myself in the midst of this shitshow.

“Do you need help, honey?” Great. Her kindness was edging me closer to the hysterical cry I felt bubbling up fast and furious. It was volcanic. Ready to erupt. “No,” I pleasantly smiled, mask in place, “I’m used to doing this alone. All good.”

Then my purse betrayed me and put my crutch in a choke hold when I tried to gracefully open the door. I could feel all six eyeballs on my back, as I disentangled and reoriented myself to get out the damn door to hear it slam behind me. It was a heavy door and almost knocked me over, I managed to remain erect without missing a beat.

Then I escaped the office and hauled ass to my car. I got in and then sobbed uncontrollably.

I felt so stupid.

Why did he have to behave like that?

Did he think I was making this up?

He doesn’t even know me and made gross assumptions. Why? Because I was a woman expressing emotion and truth?

His other words clanged around my head like a drunken bell. “I’m not willing to put my name on your surgery.” Thanks, fucker. I’m so glad you are letting me know what I already know; I’m a complex case. Your bio says you work with complex cases. I’m so glad you felt safe to share your words with me. And I know those words won’t show up in the note you write for this appointment.

It took me a moment to realize I knew this feeling. Might as well have been my father playing the role of Dr. Gobbleturd in the office with all the paternalism I didn’t sign up for back there.

I went in with the expectation of getting my life back so I could do the things I love. Like lifting with a barbell, biking, walking, playing…. sitting like a normal therapist in trauma therapy sessions. I walked out wanting to rage scream for the next realm to hear me.

Sitting in my car, incapable of turning it on, I felt the surge of growing female rage within. Here is another man cutting me down with words. I wanted to light the world on fire and scorch the earth at his dismissiveness.

The words whipped through me in a frenzy. “Just walk…Your life is all about your hip…You just need to be positive and find joy…..” He thinks my life is a series of symptoms. Make it stop! I screamed at the top of my lungs in the car. And then I felt it. Silence.

I let myself sink into the blazing heat of it, letting it burn me into obliteration.

Then I found my power.

I lived with a pain forged out of darkness I was born into and survived it.

My hip is child’s play.

My life is a series of adventures. By choice. I get to decide every day how I show up.

Life can be falling apart at the seams, and I have a fierce and unyielding tenacious will that things always work out. And if it isn’t working out, then I keep going until it does.

Gobbleturd had no idea who was in his office. Funny, since my dad never realized the power his daughter had yet to wield while she lived small and smiled to be perfect.

My “fuck it” energy was coursing throughout my body. Its command was exhilarating, filling me up. I talked out loud to myself. Because a woman talking out loud to herself is top tier energy.

“I won’t ever be walking back into your office, you tree. I’ll find a surgeon who deals in complex injuries who can listen and not assume. I don’t need some dude judging me based on my age, cataloging me as a write-off instead of the athlete I am. I WILL get my life back and move through life like a ninja. Smooth, fierce and strong.” Then I wiped the tears off my face. Took a cleansing breath. My reset. I turned on my car, put on my This is Forty-Nine playlist, and drove home with my shoulders back, belting out songs.

My “fuck it” energy collided with my very essence. Empowerment welled up deep within me, visceral and intoxicating. Was I a sorceress? It felt like it. I didn’t wait. I channeled the energy immediately. The following week was a masterclass in unhinged autonomy.

On Monday, I went for it and overcame a fear of flying solo. I booked a two-day trip to Texas to finally meet the three women from my business mastermind in person after two years. I figured out the logistics of my rogue hip in real-time: I booked roundtrip flights with wheelchair assistance and decided to fly first class. I was a self-employed business owner attending a networking event hosted by one of our members. This is a sisterhood where we show up, support and celebrate the wins.

Why sit in pain for four hours when I can upgrade?

Then I ordered a fancy collapsible cane, so I don’t have to lug a crutch around. Maybe I’ll feel inspired to do a soft-shoe number for my friends.

Tuesday, I took my car in for an inspection, but my head was already elsewhere. I’ve always liked the Audi Q5; the bigger, bolder sister to my Q3. When they handed me the keys to the loaner, it felt like the universe was nudging me what my intuition had already been telling me. Except my head kept getting in the way for some time.

I didn’t just want a car; I wanted a powerful machine which didn’t hurt to sit in. I wanted a ride matching the version of me currently booked with first-class flights to Texas. When I asked for the trade-in value, it wasn’t a whim. It was an upgrade of my entire existence.

A few hours later, I drove home with a ridiculously low payment and a cabin smelling of new car, leather and victory. Not an ounce of the clinical gaslighting remained. I didn’t just get a new car; I bought myself a way to move through the world Dr. Gobbleturd couldn’t touch.

Sometimes, you just know. That deep knowing we all have? Yeah. Trust it. It knows what’s up.

Wednesday rolled around and I realized I needed to be courageous and take a chance on the unknown with a doctor who was no longer going to be my doctor.

The universe likes to play the long game. I first met Dr. Sam twelve years ago. We were different versions of ourselves throughout the years. Back then, there were wedding rings and boundaries and a life that felt like a set of instructions I was trying to follow.

We reconnected again years later. After a surgery in 2022, I peaced out, never looking back or going to a final follow up appointment. I assumed our orbits had finally ended.

But the universe is a persistent bitch; I found myself back in his exam room in March of 2025, the air between us suddenly charged with a frequency that wasn’t there before.

When I went in for the initial consult for my banshee screaming hip, which at this point was its own sentient antagonistic sidekick in my life, the vibe was different from the get-go. We had the world’s longest handshake. Meaning, it wasn’t a shake, but a handhold as he circled from the door to stand in front of me. He didn’t have a wedding ring on like in the past. I was surprised by the change. He’d always worn the standard banker’s gold ring uniform on his left hand.

The first thing he said was, “I turn fifty next week.” Most. Random. Fact. Hmmm… He must have looked at my date of birth before he walked in. “Cool. We’re the same age.” Offering support to random facts is my jam.

Seriously, a paperclip could have knocked me over in the moment. I had no idea we were the same age.

“No,” he continued, “I’m still a year older than you.” “Oh okaayyy, Mr. My birthday is next week, and I just turned forty-nine two months ago,” I said smirking. “You’re a whole year older than me.”

This time there was something beneath the doctor/patient dynamic. Our appointments lasted upwards of an hour sometimes because we were talking about more than just my hip. I saw the person as well as the doctor. He was laid back and listened to me. We interacted as peers solving a problem with an expert skillset I needed.

Every time I went in, my goal was to get him to crack his composure of the laid-back doctor presentation. God bless him, he tried so hard. He just couldn’t help becoming a little mischievous with me. We both respected the boundary; I tried to deny the vibe every time, like I’m sure he did, given the mad dash to his stool every time after our first appointment.

Vibes don’t lie.

Stevie Wonder himself could have wandered in and seen the vibe.

Did I get him to snort-laugh a month ago? Yes, I did. And it was deeply satisfying to know I had the power of just being me to do it. Admit it, Sam, I’m a fucking delight.

I had a gut feeling this Wednesday was going to be my last time seeing him. Call me Michael Jordan, because I was shooting my shot. Before the appointment, I wrote my note, as a “smash the glass just in case” moment. Then I shoved it into the pocket of my sweater. For the record, my outfit was on point, even with my limp since I was still boycotting the crutch.

This time when we saw each other, the banter and antics started out in the hallway before he entered a room to see a different patient. Very on brand of us in the new dynamic. When he stepped into my room, we were down to business, zigging and zagging like pinballs in an arcade machine. I shared my experience of Dr. Gobbleturd. He whipped his head around in disbelief from looking at my imaging. “He said that?!” “Oh yes he did, I can’t even make it up,” I stated while leaning forward as he made space for me to look over his shoulder, appeasing my inner nerd wanting to learn what was on the computer.

I zagged sharing I was going to Texas in February. He was rightfully gobsmacked. “What? When are you going? What are you doing down there?” I was momentarily stunned with his questions, since the dynamic shifted further from the center of the norm.

I let him know exactly how I was doing it: the wheelchair and the first-class seats. And why I was going. He looked at me with something like awe. You think a little pain is going to stop me from living life? Rookie.

I zigged starting to spill some tea to him and stopped. “Shit! We’re on AI. I can’t share.” Like any good man matching energy, he wanted the tea and turned it off. We were two giddy little kids letting me spill the tea. Existing in such delicious energy is a luxury and gift.

Then we pivoted again onto something else. We have never, not once, in fact, stayed on topic.

He zinged and outmaneuvered me in logic, as he eloquently said, “Will you just get in the f’ing pool?” “Fiiiinnneeeee,” I said dramatically.

“You’re going to love it. Stop overthinking and just do it. You’ll end up going five times a week because I know you’ll become obsessed.” “Alriiiight,” I glared at him. “You win. I will do a day pass just to see if I like the pool.” He looked like he ate the damn canary with how pleased he was.

Then I was off onto another harebrained turn, sharing about my brilliant idea to wear compression swim leggings and a zippered swim top. “You aren’t swimming with Olympians! Why are you wanting a wetsuit?” “It’s not a wetsuit….yet,” I snarked.

He chuckled. “This is the time the geriatrics go! Just throw on a swimsuit.”“I know it’s geriatric time. Don’t kill my vibe, I need my edge. I want to look like a badass in the pool since my swim style is a cross between a dog/otter and turtle. I need pool cred in my adventures of the waters.”

We took stock of each other for a moment. It was a contemplative pause. It felt tangible, like a handshake without the handshake.

He saw through my BS and knew I was nervous about the pool, since it’s out of my wheelhouse, and he’d been advocating for me to go for three months and just try it out. He saw me living life on my terms, embracing my quirky, irreverent authenticity. It’s my favorite thing about myself.

Since he’s acquainted with the place, he was giving me all the details. Then he brought up the weight room, my kryptonite. “It’s a really good one. You’ll like it.” “Dude! Don’t tempt me with a good time. You know I miss the barbell.”

Cue the discussion on wanting to do five hundred pounds on the leg press again when I resume it someday. “No,” he adamantly shook his head. “Yes,” I said feisty as ever. “Seriously? There are other ways to work out. You have to consider the long game.” I paused and relented, “I’ll take it under advisement. This pool better have the elixir of a unicorn in it to change my mind.” The restraint it took for him to not be a human face-palm emoji was quite impressive.

It’s a gift I can evoke in others.

Forty-five minutes later, after finally determining the reconstructive ortho to send me to, he walked me out to the checkout window. He used his magic to get me in ASAP. He gave a little grin and said, “There ya go. You get in next week. Happy Birthday.” I grinned right back. Ok, funny man. I see you. I had the note ready in my pocket. It was now or never. I reached into my pocket and passed him a folded-up note. “It’s a little thank you.” Thank you? Really, Maria? Why does nonsensical stuff just fall out of my mouth. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured. Well, my dude, you’re going to figure out quick it’s not a thank you.

Sam —

I enjoy our talks too much to let them end with a co-pay. Once Dr. Sawyer takes over the medical heavy lifting and my ever-evolving fascinating hip saga leaving everyone at the edge of their seats, you’re off the hook for my medical shit show (Congrats!).

I’d love to grab a drink and continue the conversation outside these four walls. Zero medical talk, I promise. Text me if you’re up for it. No pressure. If not, I’ll see you around the geriatric pool sometime. 555–423–0532

~Maria

My heart was in my mouth. I didn’t have the correct new doctor’s name on the note. Am I sweating? Are you sweating? Is it just me right now? I limp-walked out the door without a backward glance. I immediately left a group audio message to my friends. I had a momentary panic of self-doubt thinking I jumped the gun. I wanted to melt into the pavement in the -1 degree weather while I just kept moving towards my car.

What woman in her right mind passes a note to her doctor like she’s in tenth grade?

Clearly, me. The unhinged woman knowing she has nothing to lose. There really are no fucks to give when you begin the walk right into fifty.

I got into my fancy Q5, cranked the music, and drove off.

Thursday, I woke up the next morning and ordered my new swim gear.

Then I checked in with myself. How did I really feel giving him the note? I searched for any cringe sensations in my body. Nothing. I dug deeper.

I felt calm. Grounded. There wasn’t any rumination, anxiety or doubt. I felt solid. Confident. I never felt more me. It felt like liberation from a version of me waiting for life to happen. I wasn’t asking for permission to live or do.

THIS is what it feels like to take up space.

I took a chance. I don’t ever have to wonder the what-if. He could have read and shredded it. I don’t know the complexities of his life, nor are they mine to manage. He gets to decide his own choices. Even if I never hear from him, I showed up for myself. The world kept turning on its axis in the silence of passing a note.

My hair is still red and curly. My dog will still bark at nothing. My inherent value isn’t determined by someone saying yes or no.

I’m building my ‘trust myself’ muscles. This is what it feels like to let myself shine bright. My life is mine and it’s messy and imperfect. To the men who have cut me down, fuck you. You aren’t entitled to this version of me.

Step out of my way, because this decade is mine for the taking.

The question for anyone I meet who grabs my attention: Can you keep up with me?

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the (mostly) innocent. Except for Gobbleturd. That stays.

www.mariamartinlpc.com