When you look at me, you may not immediately see the challenges I navigate every day. My disabilities—fibromyalgia, back problems, ADHD, and the realities of menopause—don’t always come with visible signs. They’re hidden, but they’re there, shaping my days and impacting my life in ways that aren’t always apparent to the outside world.
Living with a hidden disability is a delicate balancing act. On some days, I rely on a mobility scooter to get around. On other days, I might not need it. And this, understandably, can spark confusion or assumptions from others. But here’s a simple comparison: think of wearing glasses. Without your glasses, your vision isn’t clear—they help you see the world more comfortably. My mobility scooter (and other aids) serves the same purpose. When I need it, it makes my day-to-day existence manageable, much like glasses do for someone with impaired vision.
But the difference is, society tends to accept variability with something like glasses without question. With disabilities, however, there’s often misunderstanding or doubt, as if consistency is the only proof of legitimacy.
The truth is, people often see me only on the days when I can manage to leave the house, when I can get dressed and appear “put together.” They don’t see the days I’m confined to bed, unable to muster the strength to move, or the mornings where the simple act of dressing feels impossible. These moments are hidden from view, but they are just as real.
What many don’t realize is that my pain is a constant companion. I live with it 24/7—it never leaves. Even when I manage to step out and appear as though I’m doing fine, I’m still carrying that pain with me. It’s always there, in the background or roaring at the forefront, and yet I’ve learned to mask it. I’ve become excellent at appearing “okay,” at masking how I feel and what I’m enduring. My pain might be invisible to others, but it is unrelenting and ever-present in my reality.
Fibromyalgia, with its unpredictable flare-ups of pain and fatigue, can feel like a lottery I never signed up for. Back problems add a constant hum of discomfort to my days, while ADHD makes focus and organization a relentless challenge. And then there’s menopause—a natural transition that many experience, but one that amplifies my existing struggles with energy, mood, and well-being.
What I want others to see is the humanity behind the invisible challenges. Living with a hidden disability isn’t about seeking pity—it’s about fostering understanding and empathy. Just because you can’t see pain, or fatigue, or the mental overwhelm, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. A smile, a laugh, or the way someone appears shouldn’t be mistaken as evidence that the struggle has disappeared.
Instead of making assumptions, I ask people to extend the same compassion they would to someone with a visible disability. That small shift can make a world of difference for those of us navigating life with hidden challenges.
Living with a hidden disability has taught me resilience. Every day, I navigate a world designed for a different kind of body and mind, and while it’s not easy, it’s made me stronger, more empathetic, and more appreciative of life’s little victories.
So the next time you see someone who seems “fine” one day and needs assistance the next, remember the glasses analogy. It’s not inconsistency; it’s the nature of living with a body that doesn’t always play by the rules. And please, remember that the moments where we appear able to cope don’t erase the ones where we cannot—they are simply a part of the greater whole of what it means to live with hidden disabilities.
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