“What People Don’t See” (about the invisible struggles and communication barriers)

Fourish years ago, I hit a wall I never saw coming.

I was in a thick brain fog. I’d disassociate for days, months, years. Like I was floating above my own body, just watching life happen, almost like a dream. Which makes sense because the thought of this can't be real was always in the back of my mind. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t care, and didn’t know how to explain any of it—especially not when everything felt like an excuse. And the first two people I finally tried to tell confirmed my fear. They brushed it off. Called it an excuse. That reaction buried me deeper.

They don’t see how hard it is to speak sometimes, how I have to pause and think through every word, hoping people will wait long enough to listen. They don’t see the way my body feels foreign on the left side—numb, uncooperative—and how I have to fight through that to do even the simplest things.

They don’t see the moments I want to cry out in frustration because I tip over trying to reach something just slightly out of range. They don’t see how isolating it is to be surrounded by professionals who treat me like a diagnosis instead of a person.

People see the wheelchair. They hear the speech differences. Some stare too long; others look away too fast. If children look I just smile and wave. Some people think they know what it means to live in my body, in my world—but the truth is, they see only the surface. Most people see the wheelchair. Some see the smile, the art, the comedy. But what they don’t see—what I rarely speak about out loud—is the invisible weight I carry every single day.

The truth is, before my stroke, I didn’t believe in mental health. I thought people who said they were depressed just weren’t trying hard enough. Anxiety? Made up. Fibromyalgia? A catch-all diagnosis for people who couldn’t deal with life. I cringe at those thoughts now, but I have to be honest—that’s where I started.

Then my own mind turned on me. Not just my body, which had already betrayed me once, but my mind. That was the hardest part. I could explain physical pain. I could even laugh off my slurred speech or make jokes about peeing myself. But when I couldn’t think clearly? When I lost the thread of a conversation? When I cried for no reason or couldn’t move from the couch? I had no language for that.

I’m still unlearning the shame that came with all of it. I still hesitate before saying I have mental health struggles, because some old part of me whispers, "You’re just being dramatic."

But I’m working on that. Every day. And if this post reaches someone who’s where I was—either doubting mental illness is real, or feeling like they can’t say how bad things are—I hope you know that you’re not weak. You’re human. And so am I.

What I feel they don’t see is the full-time job of navigating a medical system that often leaves me in the dark. They don’t see the appointments where I’m talked over, the questions I can’t quite phrase fast enough, the moments where I know something’s wrong but can’t find the words to explain it. They don’t know what it’s like to live with constant uncertainty about your own health history because nobody ever took the time to tell you.

They don’t see the loneliness—not the kind that comes from being alone, but the kind that comes from not being understood. They don’t see the way people’s tones change when they realize I’m more disabled, or how often I’m spoken to like a child or ironically like an 85 year old. They don’t see the social shifts, the isolation, the grief of losing not just mobility, but identity.

They don’t see the courage it takes to get up, get dressed, and show up anyway. To speak even when I’m afraid my words will fail me. To laugh, create, and perform even when the pain is invisible and the energy is low.

I feel they don’t see how exhausting it is to be misunderstood again and again—when I’m trying to explain something and the words just don’t come out right, or when people assume I’m mentally impaired because of how I speak.

What I also feel the population doesn’t see: I’ve built a life in the midst of this. I’ve started a business as an artist. I’ve performed stand-up comedy. I’ve taken improv classes and laughed in rooms full of strangers. I’m still standing emotionally, even if I’m sitting physically.

ZTHIS ISN’T ABOUT PITY. IT’S ABOUT TRUTH. It’s about showing the parts of this journey that lives behind my eyes and under my skin. I want to write about it now—because maybe someone else out

there needs to feel seen, too. I always say I have the physical part under control, it's a mental part that's the hardest.

What I feel they don’t see is the person behind the chair—the thinker, the artist, the friend, the fighter. But I’m here. I’ve always been here. And every time I share a piece of my story, I become a little

more visible.