By: Dawn Bozarth, PHC Client of New Directions
If you had asked me what I wanted out of life when I was younger, the answer would have been: survival.
I’m 45 years old, and for most of my life, that’s what I’ve been focused on. As a teenager in Los Angeles County, I became a voluntary ward of the court and was emancipated at 17. I try not to dwell on that period of life, but it shaped me. Like many people who have faced difficult circumstances, I learned early how to keep moving forward, take care of myself, and make the best of whatever came next.
In 2009, I was diagnosed with my first major chronic illness. Over time, managing my health became a bigger and bigger part of my life. By 2016, I was on disability. Living with chronic, progressive illness has meant constantly adapting, constantly problem-solving, and often doing both without much support.
What kept me going were my friends, my community, and the safety-net programs that helped ensure my basic needs were met. This gave me enough stability to focus on the next step instead of just getting through the day.
In 2024, I made a decision that felt exciting and terrifying. I moved from Santa Cruz County to Sunnyvale so I could be closer to my specialists at Stanford. I was leaving behind the support systems I had built and to start over in an entirely new county because I believed it would ultimately improve my quality of life.
Things didn’t go the way I had hoped.
When you move counties while managing multiple chronic illnesses, there are a lot of moving pieces. Benefits have to be transferred. Health insurance needs to change. New doctors have to be found. Dentists, therapists, housing support, transportation, and countless other details need attention. I arrived in Santa Clara County with no local support network and quickly found myself overwhelmed by systems that weren’t working the way they should.
The first year was wildly stressful. I had expected a fresh start and instead found myself struggling to access the help I needed. The stress became so significant that it started affecting my physical health. Every task started to require more energy than I had available.
I was initially assigned to another Enhanced Care Management provider, but the support I received wasn’t meaningful. After nearly a year of trying to make it work, I advocated for a change and transferred to Peninsula Healthcare Connection.
The difference was immediate.
To describe what that felt like, I often think of someone walking through a desert for years, dying of thirst, and then suddenly being handed a tall glass of ice water. That’s the level of relief I experienced.
I’ve never had a problem asking for help when I genuinely need it. What I’ve struggled with is trusting systems that have failed me before. Usually, by the time I’m reaching out, I’ve exhausted everything I can do on my own. I’m already carrying the weight of managing my health, my daily responsibilities, and whatever crisis is happening at the moment.
PHC’s practical help was great. But really, it was all about feeling understood.
My CM is relatable, empathetic, patient, and kind. Just as importantly, she understands disability from a personal perspective. That’s huge.
Over time, she became someone I looked up to. Not just someone helping me navigate healthcare systems, but someone whose example taught me how to advocate for myself more effectively and more confidently.
I’ve spent much of my life either advocating for myself or going without. Having someone advocate alongside me initially felt strange. Now it feels like a partnership. It’s reassuring to know someone is in your corner.
What made the relationship especially meaningful was the lack of judgment. I didn’t have to filter myself or pretend everything was fine. Every time I expressed anger or frustration, my CM validated those feelings rather than shutting them down or telling me how I should feel.
Honestly, I can’t think of many other times in my life when I’ve felt that accepted.
One of my favorite examples happened during Disability Pride Month. After being stranded in San Francisco by non-emergency medical transportation on July 1, we ended up semi-jokingly renaming it “Disability Rage Month.” We laughed about it, but there was something meaningful behind that moment too. Instead of being told I was overreacting, I was understood.
I’ve become more open. I’m taking more risks in service of building the future I want and deserve. I’ve learned that intelligence and authenticity are two of my greatest strengths and that it’s perfectly okay to be myself. Anyone who doesn’t like it can kick rocks.
I’ve also realized that I’m much steadier and more resilient than I’ve given myself credit for.
Life is still complicated. Chronic illness hasn’t disappeared. Stress hasn’t disappeared. There are still difficult days. But I no longer have to carry everything by myself.
I’m getting better at asking for help, delegating responsibility, and walking away from situations that aren’t serving me. That gives me more energy to focus on my health, my relationships, and the things that matter most to me.
One of the things I’m most proud of is launching Breaking Boundaries, a social Meetup group for adults with limited mobility in the South Bay. Disability can be incredibly isolating, and I wanted to create the kind of community I wish had existed for me.
Having support from PHC helped me reach a place where I wasn’t spending every ounce of energy just surviving. I could begin to think beyond my own immediate needs. I could start thinking about how to create something meaningful for other people too.
I’ve even started considering the possibility of returning to school one day. I’d love to become more financially independent, although with progressive illness I know the future may not look exactly the way I imagine it today.
When I hear the phrase “Care That Connects Us,” I think about being seen as a whole person.
I’ve spent much of my life interacting with healthcare and social-service systems. For years, I often felt like I was being cared for as a patient but not really seen as a human being. This was not my experience with PHC. Professional boundaries still exist, but I know my CM genuinely cares about me as a person.
If there’s one thing I hope others take away from my story, it’s that not all support is created equal. Some of it is genuinely awful. But you have to keep advocating for yourself until you find the help you deserve.
The right support can completely change what’s possible. PHC gave me enough stability that I could stop spending all my energy surviving and start using some of it to build a life.
I’m still figuring out what comes next. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m building toward something rather than simply enduring it.
And for that, I’m incredibly grateful.
