The Infection Wasn’t in My Ear. It Was in My Silence.
- Dr. Danielle Niaz, PhD – Founder & Lead Instructor
- Sep 5
- 3 min read
A grief story, not a medical diagnosis.
This post is not medical advice. Please consult a doctor for your symptoms. This is a personal reflection on the psychosomatic impact of trauma, grief, and choosing yourself when your nervous system has forgotten how. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t.
I met Abdul. We married.
We were going to build a life—one we chose together. He asked me to come to Pakistan, to start that next chapter. But before I could get there, before the flights and the future and the home we’d imagined—my ear got infected.
And it never healed.
I went to doctors. I took meds. I tried everything western medicine could offer. But for two years, my body held tight. No drainage. No relief. Just a constant, aching barrier between me and the world.
And then… he died.
And I didn’t go to Pakistan.
I didn’t build the life.
I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
Grief Took My Hearing. Shame Kept It.
I stayed in an apartment filled with mold and memories.
I grieved. Or tried to.
But I wasn’t alone—I was with someone who couldn’t hold my pain.
A man who dismissed, minimized, redirected. A man who required silence to feel safe.
And so I learned to swallow everything—grief, rage, loss, hope.
I made myself small inside my own life.
And still… the infection stayed.
My Body Was Waiting for Me to Choose Me.
For two years, my ear held that infection like a seal between me and truth.
It wasn’t just wax or fluid. It was unspoken grief. Unacknowledged endings.
It was suspended mourning—because when it’s not safe to feel, your body locks it down.
I finally moved out of the mold. But the troll stayed.
And so did the infection.
Until this week.
⸻
Now That I’m Leaving for Real—It’s Gone.
I made a decision.
I’m leaving.
Back to LA. Back to my breath. Back to myself.
And almost immediately—without meds or rituals or appointments—my ear cleared.
No wetness. No drainage. No dark wax. Just… relief.
Two years of pain. Released.
Because my body finally believes me.
I’m not performing healing. I’m living it.
And my body believes me.
It didn’t happen with ceremony.
There was no lightning bolt.
Just one day… my ear was clear.
No wetness. No blackness. No throbbing.
Just silence. Safe, sacred silence.
⸻
My Body Held the Grief Because It Wasn’t Safe to Feel It.
That infection wasn’t just physical—it was protective.
It kept the world out. It kept Abdul in. It let me hold on without exploding. Because to feel everything too soon would’ve wrecked me.
But when I finally made the decision to really move—when I chose my own oxygen, my own exit, my own damn peace—my body let it go.
Because it didn’t need to protect me anymore.
⸻
This Isn’t Advice. This Is a Witnessing.
You don’t need to match this story.
You don’t need to make metaphors of your symptoms.
Please go to a doctor if something hurts.
But maybe… just maybe… if your body’s been screaming, you can ask:
“What am I holding that isn’t mine?”
“What grief have I swallowed to keep someone else comfortable?”
“What would my body do if it finally felt safe?”
⸻
You don’t owe anyone your silence.
You don’t have to ache to prove you’re healing.
You’re allowed to get better.
And sometimes, when you finally pick yourself over the bullshit—
your body will weep with you in relief.
⸻
Downloadable journal prompts + grief ritual PDF coming soon at
Because sometimes the aftershock is where the healing begins.
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