When They Don't See It

I've been thinking about how we talk about illness — and how hard it is when people only believe what they can see. These are some thoughts I’ve been carrying.

I don’t like calling myself "sick."

In this current world, the word feels warped. When people hear "sick," they think cold medicine, quarantine, a five-day countdown to being fine again. They think, "Oh, she caught something. She’ll get over it."

But what I have isn't something you "get over." It's something I live with.

It's not a passing virus. It's not an excuse to rest for a week. It's a condition that reshapes my energy, my priorities, my ability to do even the simplest things. Some days I can create, laugh, and move freely. Other days I feel like I’m pushing through syrup. Exhaustion sets in before I've even had a chance to try.

But from the outside? I often look fine.

And that’s the hardest part.

When they don’t see it, they don’t understand it. And when they don’t understand it, it becomes easier for them to dismiss it.

I'm not saying what I deal with is worse than anything else. It's not a comparison. But I think about how other illnesses often get a kind of recognition or urgency that mine doesn't. At least with something like cancer — and I say this with deep respect — there are protocols, visible treatments, things the world has learned to respond to.

What I live with is quieter. Longer. Less visible. And honestly? That invisibility can be more isolating than the condition itself.

I’m not "sick."

I’m living with something. Every day.

And if you’re reading this and you’re living with something too — something that doesn’t have an end date, that doesn’t always show on your face — I see you.

Even if the rest of the world doesn’t.

You’re not alone. And you don’t have to look a certain way to be believed.