All I Asked For Was Therapy. They Gave Me Litigation.

🩺 The Ask Was Simple

I didn’t ask for a payout. I didn’t threaten a lawsuit. I didn’t hire a lawyer. All I wanted was therapy.

I was a Black physician on ADA-protected leave, recovering from a psychological injury after months of working in a clinic that became increasingly unsafe — emotionally, physically, and professionally. I wasn’t trying to blow up the system. I was trying to survive it. And heal.

I thought if I just asked the right way, used the right forms, stayed within the system, I could access care and get back to work. But instead of support, I got something else in the mail: a formal denial of my workers’ compensation claim… and a letter stating that my employer was now represented by a law firm that proudly markets itself as aggressive litigators.

⸻

🧨 What They Did Instead

Let me back up.

I was working under an increasingly hostile and unsustainable environment:

— Patient volumes kept rising while staffing and resources fell apart.

— I was told not to talk to the front office staff — despite being the primary clinical support and most experienced provider on-site.

— I kept showing up anyway, trying to care for my patients with integrity and skill, until I was finally stopped in the clinic by a threatening, unstable patient, with no protection or support.

That moment, on top of everything else, broke something open in me. It wasn’t just burnout. It was trauma. And I knew I needed help.

So first, I asked for access to the award-winning physician mental health services my employer advertises. One leader acted confused. Another warned me that logging into the system to search for mental health resources might be a violation of my leave.

Let that sink in: I was threatened for trying to find therapy.

So I did the only thing left — I filed for workers’ compensation.

Not for a check. Not for a lawsuit. Just so I could get treatment, stabilize, and return to work with the one thing I hadn’t had: a safe clinical setting.

What did I get instead?

📩 A letter in the mail stating that my employer had retained outside legal counsel — a firm that describes itself, in bold letters, as “aggressive litigators.”

No call.

No evaluation.

No follow-up.

No trauma screening.

Just silence — and then escalation.

⸻

🔥 When the Fear Turned Into Fire

That letter — and the law firm’s branding — sent me into an emotional tailspin. I didn’t have a lawyer. I didn’t have money. I was still recovering from the trauma I experienced in clinic. But now, on top of everything, I was being legally threatened for asking for care.

It was like being retraumatized all over again.

I cried. I panicked. I spiraled.

But then… I got back up.

I might not have a JD. I might not have courtroom experience. But I’ve got a voice. And I’ve got the truth. And that’s when I decided to use it.

That was the moment I wrote my response. Not a lawsuit. Not a demand letter. A declaration.

I titled it: Response to Aggressive Litigators.

And I meant every word.

⸻

✊🏽 The Clapback Heard Around Richmond

My letter wasn’t formal. It wasn’t filtered through legal counsel or PR spin. It was handwritten. It was real. And it was mine.

I opened with a line that came straight from my gut:

“I love my sister. But I am not my sister.”

That wasn’t just a statement. It was a stand.

Because here’s what happened: My sister accepted a nurse practitioner job at the same facility where I was working. She showed up in a brand new white coat, excited and ready to begin.

But instead of orientation or a warm welcome, she was handed a check and told the offer was rescinded.

To this day, we don’t know exactly why. Maybe it was retaliation. Maybe it was a coincidence. But the message was clear: This place does not deal kindly with women who stand too close to the fire.

And I made a vow:

“No matter what they do to me, I will never be silenced.”

So I told them the truth.

“I will never sign a gag clause. I know your playbook. And I’m not playing.”

Then I reminded them exactly who they were trying to intimidate:

“I am a triple board-certified neurologist — adult neurology, brain injury medicine, and headache medicine — with an MBA.”

“I have served as an expert witness in traumatic brain injury cases for years.”

“I used to be the expert your kind of insurance company hired.”

And in the corner of the page, in ink and defiance, I wrote:

“Now I’m the injured. Try me, baby.”

At that moment, I reclaimed my voice.

I let them know that this was no longer just about me.

It was about the injured janitor.

The injured nurse.

The medical assistant who doesn’t have an MBA, a legal background, or the clinical authority I do.

It was about every worker who gets hurt, gaslit, and dragged through hell for asking for help.

And that’s why I’m writing this now.

Because this isn’t just happening to me.

It’s happening to workers across this country — who are being denied care, threatened into silence, and bullied by law firms before they can even catch their breath.

We need to talk about it.

We need to expose it.

We need to burn the damn playbook.

⸻

🎬 Epilogue: They Didn’t Know

So yeah — now they know.

I came up with a new name for myself:

Norma Rae of Neurology, baby.

They didn’t know who they were messing with.

But they’re about to find out.