As a pharmacist, I’ve come to believe that healing rarely follows a straight line. It’s often found in unexpected places—where modern medicine meets courage, curiosity, and the willingness to explore something new.

This year, I want to focus on stories of healing: the journeys themselves, the people who walk alongside us, the lessons learned, and the wisdom that can be passed on to you, the reader. In my practice, I see patients every day who carry experiences that could inspire, uplift, or offer perspective to someone else.

Here is Mickell Westbrook’s story.

Back in 2022, I was in a ZONE class—a high-intensity workout that I absolutely adored—when all of a sudden, I felt an incredibly intense pain. It was similar to the pain I’d experienced before my appendix was removed but deeper, sharper, and far more alarming. I left the class and somehow managed to drive myself home, telling myself that if I could just rest for a while, I would be fine.

After enough encouragement from both my gym friends and my husband, I finally agreed to go to the ER. The ER team ran a series of tests and concluded that I was fine. They were also able to get the pain under control—but only temporarily. Just two days later, the pain struck again—just as severe, if not worse—sending me back to the hospital.

They ran a second CT scan (with some convincing from my doctor to do it again), and that’s when I learned what was really happening. I was diagnosed with polyarteritis nodosa (PAN), a form of vasculitis, in a rare and very specific location: my celiac artery. The scan showed that my blood flow resembled a “string of pearls,” a visual pattern characteristic of this condition. Hearing the diagnosis was surreal. It didn’t even seem possible. I had always been healthy, active, careful.

Because the diagnosis was so serious, I was able to see a rheumatologist quickly. I was immediately placed on high doses of steroids, immunosuppressants, and anti-rejection medications. I remember feeling terrified by why such heavy medications were necessary. It was overwhelming, frightening, and foreign to every part of my identity.

During this time, I talked often with my friend and neighbor, Koby Taylor. He listened as I processed the fear, the shock, and the confusion surrounding my diagnosis and treatment plan. When I learned that the next step—if the medications didn’t work—would be chemotherapy, my fear only deepened.

Concerned, Koby encouraged me to let him help support my body during this process. He believed there were things I could do to strengthen myself while continuing my medical treatment. We talked about healing my gut, reducing inflammation, and incorporating nutrients that could support my system rather than overwhelm it. Opening my mind to these ideas felt right. Koby helped me see that if what I was doing wasn’t enough on its own, it was worth exploring what else might help, something that worked with my body instead of against it.

Around this time, my mother’s friend shared the contact information of a Chinese doctor in New York, Dr. Wong, a highly respected herbalist who has since passed away. I decided to email him and share my story, not expecting much, especially not on a weekend. But to my surprise, he wrote back on a Saturday. That alone gave me hope.

Our conversations centered around principles of traditional Chinese medicine: specifically whether I was a “hot” or “cold” person. Based on his assessment, he advised me to avoid certain foods, including nightshades (a family of plants that includes tomatoes, eggplant, potatoes, and peppers) and anything highly acidic. He also formulated a custom herbal tea and instructed me to drink it three times a day. It was a completely different approach from anything I had learned in Western medicine, but something about it felt right—supportive rather than suppressive.

At that point, I made a decision. I informed my doctor and my family that I intended to follow Dr. Wong’s protocol while also continuing with the dietary and supplemental guidance Koby was giving me. I committed wholeheartedly. I wasn’t abandoning my medical team; I was expanding it and stepping into a more active role in my own healing.

After drinking the tea consistently for four or five months, it was time for a follow-up CT scan. I went in with cautious hope, trying not to let my optimism get ahead of reality. When my doctor came into the room smiling, I knew something had shifted. He told me my scan was clear. I felt a wave of relief, gratitude, and disbelief wash over me. After everything—the pain, the fear, the medications, the diet changes, the tea, the emotional and mental work—it was the first concrete proof that my body was healing.

My doctor said, “Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it. I’ll see you in six months.”

That moment changed everything. Looking back now, I know healing didn’t come from just one thing. It came from being willing to look beyond what I had always considered “normal.” It came from staying open-minded, willing to try approaches I had never considered.

I took a hard look at my life: my food, my stress, my rest, my mindset. I started practicing meditation and affirmations daily, and I’ve continued those practices long after the crisis faded because they bring me peace and clarity.

I took charge of my decisions. I took charge of the way I approached my health. And through that, I learned a powerful truth: Healing is not passive. It’s something you participate in, something you nurture, something you choose every single day. Our bodies are capable of healing if we listen, trust, and act on what feels right.

It is now late 2025, and I am still symptom-free and disease-free. The practices I adopted, the mindset I cultivated, and the support I opened myself up to continue to bring me peace and clarity.