People often use the phrase “invisible illness” as if it explains everything — why they don’t understand, why they dismiss, why they assume it’s not that bad.
But what do you mean, invisible?
Are you sure you can’t see it?
Because if you look closely — really closely — it’s right there.
It’s in the heaviness of my limbs, the tightness in my jaw that hasn’t had permission to relax in years. It’s in the way my abdomen clenches as pain slices through from the inside out. It’s in the constant anticipation, the bracing, the waiting for the next flare to hit — because at a certain point, dignity and discretion are luxuries you can’t always afford.
If you really look, you would see a body that feels at war with its mind, and a mind that carries the guilt of burdening the people who hold me upright when even standing becomes an impossible task.
Chronic illness is not a bad day. It is days and days and days of symptoms, exhaustion, anxiety, lost responsibilities, missed promises, and the crushing weight of dependency.
And then there are the others — those untouched by constant discomfort — who look at this fight and somehow only see weakness, when inside me lives more strength than they could ever imagine.
Invisible?
It’s visible in every fluctuating pound, every line carved by fatigue or pain. It’s in the carousel of nausea, dizziness, and loss of control — the kind of ride most people couldn’t endure for five minutes, much less a lifetime.
It’s in the comments.
The glances.
The accusations — spoken and unspoken — suggesting I want this, that I choose this, that I am somehow less because of it.
But let me be clear:
The illness is not invisible.
It’s written across the timeline of my life. It shadows my accomplishments, heavy enough to topple triumphs until only failure seems to remain in view. It sits on my chest, on my shoulders, in my reflection. If you listen — not just to what I say, but to the words I don’t say — you’d hear it.
No, the illness is not the invisible one.
The strength is.
The courage.
The spine that stays vertical even when everything in me wants to collapse.
The tenacity of a girl who dreams of being extraordinary but wakes up on days when even the mundane feels unreachable.
The invisibility lies in the ache of wanting to be understood, validated, seen for what I bring to the world — not for what I cannot do.
If you cannot see her — the warrior inside this hurting body — then the loss is yours.
Because she is worth every ounce of effort it takes to survive.
She is more beautiful in the hurting than in the ease, because it’s in the hurting that her heart refuses to surrender.
And that — that — is where the true story of chronic illness lives. Not in invisibility, but in undeniable, breathtaking resilience.
Maria is a published author and artist. Always searching out the best in bad situations, Maria writes and creates for herself as much as for others. She is the author of "Always Sunshine Yellow."
