“You Don’t Look Sick” and Other BS That Makes Me Want to Scream

I can still hear the words.

"But you don't look sick."

Said with confusion. With doubt. With pity.

Like I should be grateful that I don’t look like I’m falling apart. Like I should take it as a compliment that my suffering isn’t written all over my face.

As if the years of hospital rooms, sleepless nights staring at the ceiling wondering if I was dying, the days I couldn’t even lift my own damn head off the pillow—as if none of that counts because my face isn’t pale enough, because my body hasn’t wasted away enough, because I don’t have some visible marker that tells the world just how f-cking hard this is.

Let me tell you what you don’t see.

Some nights, the only light in the room is the one I leave on for myself—because the world doesn’t see the darkness I fight alone.

You Don't See

• The moments I’ve had to grip the walls just to make it to the bathroom, legs shaking, vision going black at the edges.

• Me lying on the kitchen floor because my body quit on me when I just wanted to make something to eat.

• The times I’ve choked down tears because my body aches so deep that even my bones feel bruised.

• The medications, the supplements, the IVs, the trial-and-error, the relentless cycle of trying to piece together some semblance of a life when my own body has betrayed me over and over again.

• The exhaustion of pretending to be fine in a world that doesn’t slow down.

And the worst part? I started doubting myself.

I Started Wondering...

I wish I could say the ignorance from other people didn’t get to me.

But the truth?

It f-cking did.

It still does.

I started wondering if maybe I was being dramatic. If maybe I was weak.

Because when people treat you like you’re fine long enough, when they act like you’re exaggerating, when they don’t see the pain—you start wondering if maybe they’re right.

Maybe I should be able to do more.

Maybe I am lazy.

So I pushed harder.

I smiled when I wanted to scream.

I walked when I should have been in bed.

I sat through dinners pretending I wasn’t in excruciating pain.

I forced myself through schoolwork, through conversations, through life, like if I just acted fine long enough, maybe I’d convince myself too.

Like if I didn’t show anyone how bad the crash after the push was, maybe it didn’t count.

They didn’t believe it anyway.

So I pushed. And I crashed. And I got up and did it all over again.

Because that’s what’s expected, right?

Standing still in a world that never stops moving—this is what chronic illness feels like.

Then One Day, I Just Stopped

Not because it got easier.

Not because I stopped hurting.

Not because people finally understood.

But because I finally realized something:

The world wasn’t going to hand me validation.

I had to claim it for myself.

I stopped needing people to believe me.

I stopped explaining myself.

I stopped trying to make them see what they were never going to see.

Instead, I started focusing on what I needed—not what they thought.

And that? That’s what changed everything.

But it wasn’t easy.

It took years to stop searching for validation from people who were never going to give it.

It was f-cking hard to accept that some people just weren’t capable of understanding.

And I still catch myself backsliding sometimes.

But when I do? I pinch myself and remind myself:

Their understanding doesn’t change my reality.

Their belief doesn’t make my pain any more or less real.

I know what I live with every single day—and that is enough.

What Do They Expect?

Do they want me hooked up to machines? A permanent IV? A hospital bed to prove it?

Would that make my pain more real?

Would they finally understand if they could see it?

Some of the sickest people I know have mastered the art of hiding it.

Because we have to.

Because the world doesn’t slow down for us.

Because we have jobs, families, lives that don’t stop just because our bodies refuse to cooperate.

Because it’s f-cking exhausting to explain ourselves every single day.

Two different scenes, same battle. Just because you don’t see the struggle doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Here's What I'll Say Instead

If you’ve ever had someone look at you like they don’t believe you, like you’re just being dramatic, like your reality is somehow up for debate—I want you to hear me when I say this:

Your pain is real. Your struggle is real. And you don’t owe a single soul proof of what you’re going through.

• You don’t have to collapse on the floor for your suffering to count.

• You don’t need to put your worst moments on display just to be taken seriously.

• You don’t have to destroy yourself trying to prove what you already know is real.

People who don’t get it? That’s their problem. Not yours.

The next time someone tells me I don’t look sick, I’ll say this:

"You don’t look ignorant. But here we are."