This past week (October 20–26) marked Invisible Disabilities Awareness Week, a time to recognize the millions of people living with conditions that can’t be seen but are deeply felt every single day. According to the Invisible Disabilities Association (IDA), an invisible disability is any physical, mental, or neurological condition that isn’t immediately apparent on the outside, yet it can significantly limit a person’s movements, senses, or activities.
That definition may sound broad, and that’s because it is. Invisible disabilities encompass everything from chronic pain and autoimmune conditions to neurological disorders and mental health challenges. You can’t always see what someone is going through, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t shaping their every moment.
There’s no one “look” to disability, and that’s part of what makes it so misunderstood. Invisible disabilities can include:
• Symptoms such as pain, fatigue, dizziness, cognitive dysfunctions, brain injuries
• Chronic pain conditions like CRPS, Fibromyalgia, and Neuropathy
• Dysautonomia disorders like POTS, Syncope, Multiple System Atrophy
• GI conditions like Gastroparesis, UC, Crohn’s, and other motility disorders
• EDS, Sjogren’s, and other connective tissue disorders
• Vascular compression disorders, and circulatory issues
• Neurological, cognitive, and mental health conditions such as migraines, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, MS, depression, Schizophrenia, and Epilepsy
The list is lengthy.
According to the Invisible Disabilities Association, about 10% of Americans live with a medical condition that could be considered an invisible disability, and 96% of people with chronic conditions live with illnesses that aren’t outwardly visible. That means most people with disabilities are living. These are people that the world rarely sees, and therefore, rarely accommodates.
For me, these are more than words, they are the realities that shape my life. I live with CRPS, POTS, gastroparesis, May-Thurner Syndrome, EDS/connective tissue disorder, lower GI dysmotility, nerve compressions, and more. To the outside world, I might look perfectly put together, but on the inside, my body is continuously weakening. The pain, exhaustion, nausea, dizziness, and brain fog don’t always show, but they’re always there with some days worse than others. Living with an invisible illness means constantly navigating misunderstanding and judgment. People see what’s on the surface, not the struggle beneath it.
I have been accosted after parking in a handicapped spot, told “you don’t look disabled” or that I’m “taking spots from people who really need it.” What they don’t know is that some days, walking even a few extra steps can send pain shooting through my body or severe dizziness.
In school, I received academic accommodations, things like extended time for exams or taking them in a quiet room alone. Those supports weren’t special treatment; they were survival tools that allowed me to perform at my capable aptitude when those days were tough to get through. Still, I remember whispers from classmates who said I was “lucky” or “getting an unfair advantage.”
Even in social settings, I’ve been labeled as “rude” or “antisocial” because I sometimes shut down or pull away. The truth? It’s often because of fatigue, pain, or brain fog that makes following a conversation feel impossible. I’m not trying to disconnect, my body is just at its limit, and I need a break.
Then there are the daily tasks that can shift from one day to the next. One day, I might have enough energy to run errands or meet friends. The next, I can barely stand long enough to shower. When I sit down during an outing or bow out of plans, I’ve seen the looks, people assuming I’m lazy, uninterested, or disrespectful. But invisible illness doesn’t operate on a schedule. Every day is different, and that unpredictability can be isolating. This HURTS. Every comment like “you don’t look sick” or “you just need to take better care of yourself” chips away at the already fragile balance of living with chronic illness. These remarks come from ignorance, not cruelty, but they sting, nonetheless.
For a long time, I thought it was my responsibility to educate everyone or to justify my pain and when I didn’t, it was my fault I was in that position. It is important to understand that sometimes you must walk away, not because you don’t care, but because you’ve finally decided to care about yourself. Protect your peace! It is not our job to make others comfortable, especially when doing so costs you your sanity or joy. When something starts to affect your entire life and people still don’t understand, that is your sign to move on.
Invisible disabilities can make you feel like you’re standing still while the world keeps spinning faster. The loneliness can be suffocating but I’ve learned that invisible doesn’t mean insignificant. Our experiences are valid, and our stories matter. Whether you’re dealing with chronic pain, fatigue, anxiety, or anything else the world can’t see, you are not alone.
Over time, I’ve realized that sharing my story, even the uncomfortable parts, can change how people see invisible disabilities and chronic illness. Awareness leads to understanding and understanding leads to compassion. When we open up, we help others see that disability doesn’t have one face, one body, or one story. This is why awareness matters. It’s not about highlighting the struggle for sympathy, it’s about visibility, equity, and connection. So, this week, and every week, I share my story, even though it’s extremely uncomfortable. It will be worth it if even one person feels seen or understood reading this.
To all of us living with invisible battles, may we continue to show up, speak out, and support each other.
Thanks for reading.