After the Crash, What Matters Most
A Safe Place
After the crash, there is often a quiet stretch that no one prepares you for.
The appointment is over.
The words have been said.
And the room where it all happened is empty now.
For many women, that room is not just empty.
It is miles and miles away.
In my last post, we named what many women describe feeling when they first hear a diagnosis like Primary Ovarian Insufficiency (POI): devastated, shocked, and confused.
This post begins where that moment often leads—after the words have landed, after the room has emptied, and life has resumed on the outside.
You are back home.
Back to work.
Back to routines that look the same from the outside.
But something inside has shifted, and there is no clear place to put it yet.
When Care Feels Distant
For women who live far from specialty care—especially in rural communities—distance becomes part of the experience.
The diagnosis may have happened in a large medical center or a specialist’s office you traveled hours to reach. There may have been expertise, careful words, even kindness.
And then you leave.
The room does not travel with you.
The certainty does not travel with you.
Often, the sense of being held does not either.
What remains is a long stretch of days where questions surface slowly, not all at once. And when they do, it can feel like there is no clear place to bring them.
The Difference Between Access and Presence
Access matters.
Expertise matters.
But access alone is not the same as care.
Care is not just what happens in a room.
It is what happens after you leave it.
It is knowing who is paying attention as time unfolds.
It is having someone who remembers what you were told, even when you can’t.
It is not having to decide everything while you are still absorbing what just happened.
When care ends at the doorway, distance grows heavier than miles.
Why Speed Isn’t the Answer
After a diagnosis, there is often an unspoken expectation to move quickly.
- To follow up
- To make plans
- To “stay on top of things”
But speed does not always bring steadiness.
For many women, the hardest part is not a lack of information. It is the absence of someone who stays oriented to you while things are still unclear.
Rushing forward can sometimes feel like being asked to carry something before you know how heavy it is.
A Different Kind of Question
After the crash, the most important question is often not:
What should I do next?
It is:
Who is with me as I figure that out?
Not just in the room where the words were spoken.
But back home.
Over time.
Across the miles.
If you are feeling the weight of distance right now—geographic or otherwise—you are not imagining it. And you are not alone in that experience.
Care was never meant to be something you visit briefly and then leave behind.
It was meant to stay close, even when the room is empty.
Take care and be well,
Dr. Lawrence M. Nelson, MD, MBA
Director, My 28 Days® Initiative
President, Mary Elizabeth Conover Foundation, Inc.
