Invisibility

There was a time when hiding felt easier.

Before the walking stick. Before the Blue Badge. Before the quiet, irreversible shift in how I moved through the world. My disability existed in a space that could be concealed. I could choose when to mention it, when to acknowledge it, when to allow it to exist publicly.

Invisibility offered protection.

Protection from questions. Protection from judgment. Protection from the subtle shift in people’s expressions when they realise your body does not function the way they expect. Remaining hidden allowed me to control what others saw. It allowed me to move through the world without explanation.

Visibility changed that.

Using a walking stick at 31 made my disability undeniable. Parking in a disabled bay made it public. Speaking openly about multiple sclerosis made it real in a way silence never had.

Visibility invited scrutiny.

The looks came first. Brief, assessing glances that lingered long enough to communicate doubt. People searched for evidence. They searched for something visible that would confirm what they believed disability should look like. The absence of obvious markers created confusion.

Confusion often becomes judgment.

For a long time, I understood that fear. I lived inside it.

A close friend of mine, who is also chronically ill, still lives there. Her illness exists quietly beneath the surface. She manages it privately, carefully, avoiding disclosure wherever possible. Her decision is shaped by fear—fear of being judged, dismissed, or reduced to something fragile in the eyes of others.

I have watched her minimise her pain. I have watched her hide symptoms to protect herself from misunderstanding. I have watched her carry the weight of invisibility because visibility feels more dangerous.

Her fear is not irrational. It is learned.

The world teaches disabled people very quickly that visibility comes with consequences. Judgment is subtle, persistent, and often unspoken. Opportunities shift. Relationships change. Perception narrows.

Hiding becomes a form of self-preservation.

Seeing her live that reality forced me to confront my own silence. I recognised the same instinct in myself. The instinct to conceal. The instinct to soften the truth. The instinct to protect others from discomfort, even when it came at the expense of my own honesty.

Remaining invisible would have been easier.

Silence would have allowed me to avoid scrutiny. Silence would have allowed others to remain comfortable. Silence would have allowed me to exist without confrontation.

Comfort, however, comes at a cost.

Hiding requires performance. It requires pretending fatigue is manageable. It requires minimising pain. It requires existing in a version of reality shaped to protect other people’s expectations rather than honour your own.

That performance is exhausting.

There is a particular kind of loneliness in being unseen. Invisible disability exists in isolation. Without visibility, there is no recognition. Without recognition, there is no understanding. Without understanding, there is no change.

Watching my friend hide made me realise how many people live inside that silence.

Advocacy began with that realisation.

My decision to speak openly about my disability was not born from confidence. It was born from refusal. Refusal to carry invisibility as protection. Refusal to accept a life shaped by fear of judgment. Refusal to allow silence to define my experience.

Each time I spoke honestly about multiple sclerosis, something shifted. Writing about fatigue, mobility, and identity transformed something private into something shared. Visibility created connection. Visibility created recognition.

Visibility also created discomfort.

Some people did not understand. Some people still do not. Doubt exists. Judgment exists. Misunderstanding exists.

Fear exists.

The difference now is that fear no longer dictates silence.

Becoming a hidden disability advocate was not about becoming fearless. It was about choosing honesty over comfort. It was about recognising that visibility does more than expose vulnerability. It creates space. It creates representation. It creates permission for others to exist openly.

My friend is still not ready to be visible. Her decision deserves respect. Visibility is not an obligation. It is a choice shaped by personal safety, readiness, and emotional protection.

My choice is different.

I choose visibility because I know what invisibility feels like. I know how isolating it can be. I know how easily disabled people disappear into silence.

Choosing visibility means accepting discomfort. It means accepting that not everyone will understand. It means existing honestly anyway.

Comfort would have kept me hidden.

Visibility allows me to exist fully.

Visibility allows me to speak not only for myself, but for those who are not yet ready to be seen.

Visibility allows me to choose truth over fear.