My Journey at The Mary Pac Arthritis Centre
For the past several weeks, I’ve been participating in the ICAP program at the Mary Pack Arthritis Centre. It’s been intense and with all the pool exercises and physiotherapy, I’ve been way more physically active than I have in a long time. I went from 1 to 2 hours of mild exercise per week to roughly 7 or 8 – which has been exhausting to say the least, and on top of balancing this with work and life — I’m also navigating the deeply unexpected healing of old emotional and psychological wounds left over from my past.
In my youth, I participated in many programs like ICAP. Growing up with rheumatoid arthritis in every joint of my body, it kinda just came with the territory. Back then, as a little kid with a “grown-ups disease”, I didn’t get much say, I felt like I was just a body in the room, an experimental case file moving through the system. Dr’s and my parents would talk about me as if I wasn't sitting right between them – leaving me just waiting to be asked what I thought and felt. My bodily awareness was always high; even from a young age I could describe exactly what was happening inside me, where it hurt, what made it worse or better. But my voice, my opinion and my wisdom were rarely taken into account.
Therapists and doctors followed protocol.
I followed instructions.
And it always left me feeling like an afterthought in my own care.
I was hospitalized more for harmful side effects and severe pharmaceutical reactions than actual arthritis based issues and no one ever stopped to ask me how any of this made me feel.
I always put on a brave face, but deep down I was terrified.
Fast forward to today.
Now, every therapist and every practitioner I've been meeting actually listens. Like, really listens. When I share insights about what I’m noticing, they perk up. Not only do they ask questions, they make adjustments based on what I say. They praise my bodily awareness — during every single session. We collaborate. They work with me, not on me.
And it’s been wonderful.
There are parts of me that are singing from the rooftops:
“Finally! This is the kind of care I’ve been looking for all along!
“This is what health care should be!”
“Thank you, thank you THANK YOU!”
And then there are other parts — the pissed off ones.
The ones who are angry that it took this long for my voice to be heard.
The ones who want to blow up at someone, anyone, for all those years of being unacknowledged.
The ones who are still healing from all the hurt this type of treatment and dismissal had caused me.
These parts are protective, raging teenagers who stand guard over the tender exiled child parts, screaming:
“How old do you have to be just to be heard?!”
“Why do I have to be an adult to be taken seriously in my own care?”
“How many more kids will be dismissed the way I was?”
“Why the F did I have to wait so long for my opinion to matter!?”
This corrective experience has been beautiful — and it’s also stirring up a lot. It’s like being given a taste of what should have been while holding the ache of what wasn’t.
And honestly? That’s the nature of healing sometimes. It’s not linear. It’s not just joy. Sometimes it’s grief wrapped in gratitude. Sometimes it’s anger burning beneath relief. Sometimes it’s the quiet, bittersweet awareness that the body keeps score — and when it’s finally treated with respect, old scores rise to the surface, asking to be reckoned with.
But here’s what I know:
Every time I’m listened to by a medical professional, something deep inside me exhales.
Every time I’m taken seriously, an old wound softens.
Every time my awareness is valued, that silenced little girl in me stands a bit taller.
Healing isn’t just about repairing what’s broken.
It’s about rewriting the story — even if that takes decades — so every part of us, even the hurt, dismissed and exiled ones, can finally rest in knowing: You were right. Your voice and wisdom matter. You matter. And you always did.