I appear fine. Fat. But otherwise, I look ordinary. I often like it that way because no one stares, and I hate being the center of attention. All the things that differentiate me are inside—my personality, the sound of my laughter, and my invisible illnesses. For a long time, I was able to keep the fact that I am sick hidden. I didn’t claim my disabilities openly or even call myself a disabled person. I only felt bad in fits and spurts, so I didn’t think I “qualified.” Then my body started to betray me more with each passing year. Over time, it made even mundane tasks like twisting my hair or washing the dishes difficult, so I began to accept my lot in life and found ways to cope.
Eventually, I became a disability advocate at work, educating people about the topic, and I claimed the status at the forefront of my identity—disabled, queer, Afro-Boricua—if I was asked. If you have to ask, there are ways to inquire without being offensive or off-putting, starting with displaying empathy and curiosity about how to better support someone. For example, “If you feel comfortable sharing, I’d like to know if you have any disabilities that I should be aware of to better understand or support you?” or “I want to make sure I’m being considerate. Are there any accommodations or needs that you have related to a disability?” Unfortunately, I’ve encountered more folks who put their foot in their mouth than not.
It was a warm spring day, and I was walking with a more senior colleague toward my rented Kia Soul. Seeing the handicap placard hanging from my rearview window, she exclaimed, “You don’t look disabled! What’s wrong with you anyway?!”
I was shocked. We both worked in Human Resources, so I expected her to know better. I cocked my head, looked at her, and thought, Bitch. You’re a whole mess. Note to self, never hire her. And nothing is “wrong” with me. I just have conditions that make life a bit harder.
But I answered with, “As you know, not all disabilities can be visually identified” and proceeded to give an educational lesson on why we shouldn’t make assumptions, a very detailed walk-through of my diagnoses/conditions, and explained my pain. As I described my Rheumatoid Arthritis/Spondyloarthritis (RA/SpA), Fibromyalgia, and other ailments, she turned progressive stages of the crimson family until she turned lobster. It wasn’t meant to embarrass her, but as a professional in our field, I needed to help her understand the misstep, so she could avoid alienating others.
Questioning the legitimacy of my pain also happens more often than not. I met an acquaintance who needed advice about his career for lunch. “Why have you been on disability so long? Hasn’t it been over 18 months? You don’t look that bad to me. Don’t you miss your career?”
I reminded him, “None of us can really see or know what is plaguing people, particularly when it comes to mental health and pain.” I consider unloading onto him. Should I tell him about my flare-ups when I feel like my hair follicles are on fire and the migraine is so bad I wonder if flaying the skin would be easier? Should I mention the times when my husband can’t touch me because my skin is so sensitive his fingers feel like a thousand little knives? Or what about when my joints are inflamed, and my arms and knees swell up like balloon animals, my hands cramp and get stuck, my hips lock, and my spine feels as if someone is jumping up and down on my shoulders trying to jackhammer me into the ground? Or when every nerve fires and it feels like I am being electrocuted, hot bolts of lightning shooting through every limb?
Should I try to describe severe generalized anxiety disorder—when every horrific thing that can possibly happen in a given scenario flies through my mind like I’m watching a highlight reel of the Death and Dismemberment Olympics, crippling me into agoraphobia? Or acknowledge that I cry every time we have to leave the house and I flinch and holler through car rides like I’m in Death Race 3000? Should I share that this three-hour lunch meeting is draining me and that I may need to sleep for five to six hours afterward? Or that my capacity for holding an intellectual conversation is limited because the ten different medications I am on give me brain fog, and staying coherent is a struggle?
I say none of that, instead replying with something like, “It’s a journey. I’m slowly improving and working with my many doctors, but no one thinks I’m ready to be back in the workforce just yet. I’m sicker than I look.”
Over the years, I’ve become accustomed to the invasive questions—why do you walk so slowly, is your condition really THAT serious, are you using it as an excuse to get out of [insert task here]? So I have a short spiel prepared for when I have to explain why I can’t lift the boxes everyone else is lifting to “help out” or why I can’t be the one to carry the whiteboard across campus for the offsite we’re having or why I have to wait for the elevator while the team is taking the stairs when it’s only two flights (or God forbid only one) or why I’m going to drive to the restaurant the group wants to go to that’s a half mile away rather than walk with them. Being “able-bodied passing,” without a wheelchair or other device to signal my disability, means that bosses, teams, colleagues, and even those we call friends often forget that not everyone who needs an accommodation has an obvious impairment.
The CDC states that 1 in 4 people has a disability, and the estimate of those with invisible disabilities is between 10-20% of the population. Yet, as a culture, we aren’t taught that making assumptions is dangerous or how to handle things sensitively. So not looking the part can get me into tricky situations when it shouldn’t.
I took a Bikram Yoga class because the heated room helps with my joint inflammation and the stretching of my mostly non-existent muscles. I planned to try only the poses I felt comfortable doing and modify or sit out the rest. I filled out the medical form before class, specifying my disabilities, and then mentioned to the new-to-me instructor, “I have mobility issues, so I’ll be taking it easy.” Mid-class, as I struggled with the basic full locust pose (Poorna Salabhasana), lying on my belly and lifting my legs, chest, and arms, the class transitioned to the next pose. Still on my stomach, I suddenly felt searing pain throughout my entire body as the instructor unexpectedly yanked one foot up and one arm back until my hand grabbed my ankle behind me, and then, with lightning speed, she did the other side. I had been forcefully put in full bow pose (Dhanurasana), a crackling pretzel, stuck, shaking, trying not to scream for fear of embarrassment as the sweat dripped off every pore in my body, making a pool around me. “You see, you ARE flexible! Breathe through it,” she said curtly as she stood over me.
The moment she walked away, I released myself, lying flat on my face panting. Throughout the rest of class, she’d come over and quickly push me beyond my limit into position because it looked like my body could do it. It would take me nearly a week to recover from that class and the recklessness of the instructor who didn’t think I appeared disabled enough to have to modify the poses. I wish I could say it was the only instance of something like that, but before I found my current doctors and got diagnosed, even medical professionals doubted the extent of my pain.
I seldom make it out to an event, but when I do, it’s not without incident either. Once, on a rare good health day, I made it out of the house to a beautiful theater to see Mo Gilligan, a British comedian who often left me belly-laughing and hyperventilating with every set I saw on TV. Laughter is healing when you have little else. Excited to see him live for the first time, we purchased aisle seats close to the door for a few reasons. Most importantly, I’m immunocompromised, COVID-19 was still rampant, and being close to the exit appeased my anxiety—we simply didn’t want to be in the middle of the crowd. It also meant we could stretch out, given my muscle cramps and my husband also has a nerve disorder, not to mention extremely long legs.
As we entered the space, I gripped his hand tightly and showed our tickets to the usher. “Can you please move to your proper seats?” the usher asked the two women sitting in ours. One of the women stood up, putting her hand on her belly, and with a disgusted tone said, “Ugh. Well, I’m pregnant. Can’t y’all just sit in the middle?”
“I’m sorry, but we chose the aisle specifically,” I said nicely and smiled.
They grumpily complied and moved to their proper seats. “This is bullshit. Watch them get mad every time I have to pee,” the woman loudly complained to her friend.
As they continued to talk smack, I leaned toward them and in my sweet-lady voice, said, “Get up as many times as you need, dear. We’ll move.”
Yes, I could have told them we’re disabled, but I was pretty sure we’d be met with “you don’t look it,” like so many times before when folks scanned me up and down and made a face that said “nah.” Or I could be told I’m lying, or she’d say, “It’s not as bad as pregnancy.” Believe it or not, this disability dance-off happens more often than it should, and I find myself wanting to yell—It’s not a competition—when I encounter other disabled people who want to compare their lot in life with mine. Anyway, I shouldn’t have to justify why I wanted to sit in the seat I paid for.
But the Who-Has-It-Worse game doesn’t only happen with strangers. As much as we try, it occasionally infiltrates our home. Sometimes all I want to do is wax poetic about my woes a little bit and have my husband hold me, sweetly lie, and tell me it’s going to get better. But often, he will respond with an in-depth detailing of his own symptoms, commiserating with me. “I want to detach my torso from my lower back just to get a reprieve,” I’ll say, hoping for some reassuring words or a back/glute massage.
Instead, I’m met with, “And I want my spine pulled out of my body and replaced with a bionic one, so I can breathe easy again. It feels like it’s splintering and stabbing my lungs.” I just want to cry—Can I just tell you mine without you showing me yours?! Marriage is hard work for healthy people. Disability tests the “in sickness” part of the vows like nothing else. It requires a level of patience and empathy that takes time to develop and is hard to muster when I’m bedridden, he’s having a bad health week too, the house is a wreck, and there’s no one to take care of us but us. We’ll often joke that we only have one good body between us, and that’s on a good day. Yet, we manage, hour by hour, holding onto the joy in small moments—a laugh at a great joke, playing with the dog, seeing friends, watching a good show, holding hands as we fall asleep.
I think it’s important we all share some examples of what it’s like to live with disability so that it becomes socially acceptable to talk about and so that those experiencing it don’t feel ostracized from society. So I’m writing this, but also know that doing so hurts, not because it’s hard to be vulnerable, but because the pain is radiating down my arms, my fingers are fat and swollen and puckered as they hit each key, emphasizing my plight and privilege. I’m privileged because I still have an outlet, legs to walk, arms to complain about, and a community to support me. I can write this for those who don’t have a platform and suffer in silence. I can explain all this for the hurt woman inside of me who just wants to be understood. I can hopefully contribute to hushing the barrage of questions from able-bodied people who don’t truly see us. And when the day comes that my hands no longer work, I will be ready to speak my truth, because I’ve already found my voice on the page. Today, I’m healthy enough to use all my words and tell in-depth stories, yet most of the time, I simply want to holler—Disability has an invisibility cloak people. Act accordingly!
Jasmine Vallejo-Love (she/they) is a disabled Afro-Puerto Rican American poet and writer. In 2025 and 2026, Lambda Literary, PEN America, McCormack Writing Center (formerly Tin House), VONA, and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference have supported her work. A Diana Woods Memorial Award finalist and Quippy Choice Award winner, she’s published in several anthologies and journals, including Pinch, Lunch Ticket, and SoFloPoJo.
Instagram: @CafecitoWithJas
Website: VallejoLoveLife.com