“You Don’t Look Sick”: Living with an Invisible Disability

I hear it all the time.
“But you don’t look sick.”
It’s supposed to be reassuring, I think. But it never feels that way.

What they don’t see is what it takes to get through a “normal” day. The brain fog, the fatigue, the pain that pulses under my skin like electricity. The way I rehearse smiling in the mirror because I’m tired of being asked if I’m okay. The way I disappear from social events because pretending to be fine is sometimes more exhausting than just staying home.

People expect disability to look a certain way. A cast. A cane. A wheelchair. Something obvious. Something they can point to and say, “Ah, yes. I understand.”

But when it’s invisible—when it’s neurological, or autoimmune, or mental—it’s easy for others to doubt it. And when people doubt it, you start to doubt yourself.

You start to think maybe you are lazy. Maybe you are just dramatic. Maybe you should be able to do more, be more, push through.

So you push. And you crash. And you repeat.

I’ve gotten good at hiding it. At playing the part. I’ve learned how to nod and smile, to say “I’m fine” even when I’m not. Because explaining the whole story is too much. Because most people don’t really want the truth—they want the version of you that doesn’t make them uncomfortable.

But here’s the truth anyway:
Living with an invisible disability means constantly negotiating with your body and your mind. It means grieving the person you used to be—or the person you thought you were supposed to become. It means learning to rest without guilt. To speak up without apology. To accept your limits without seeing them as failures.

It’s lonely. And it’s hard. But it also makes you strong in ways you never expected.

If you’re reading this and it sounds familiar, you’re not alone.
Even if it feels like it.
Even if no one sees it.
Even if no one understands.

I see you.
And I believe you.