Today was one of those days that tested every part of me.
After nearly twenty years of living as a stroke survivor, I’ve learned to expect that loud family gatherings can take a real toll. The sensory overload, the effort to follow conversations, the pain that crashes through my body when I’m trying to sit still. None of that shows on the surface but it shapes my whole experience.
What’s hardest is trying to speak when my thoughts won’t cooperate with my mouth. Sometimes what comes out isn’t what I meant. Sometimes I’ve repeated myself so many times just to be heard that I just give up. It’s frustrating and can feel invalidating, even when I know the people around me love me.
I’ve always wanted to set a good example for my nieces and nephews who are now young adults. I show up and am present. But invisible disabilities don’t take holidays off. They don’t disappear for birthdays or family dinners. They show up with me, everywhere I go.
Tonight, the weight of it all hit harder than usual. My facial Botox has worn off, and the muscles weakened by facial palsy are tight, fatigued, and painful. Add in the rain, which always amplifies my nerve pain, and the whole evening felt like a marathon in slow motion.
It would have been easy to stay home and rest. But I didn’t want to let my family down. So I showed up and did my best. However, my family could see straight through me. They know me well, and they saw the struggle. In some ways, that visibility is harder to face than the pain itself.
Living with the longevity of a condition like this is one of the toughest battles I’ve known. It’s not the acute moments that break you but the slow endurance. It’s a daily recalibration and decision making to keep going and I’m sharing this tonight because I know I’m not alone.
Invisible conditions are everywhere, hidden behind brave faces, polite smiles, and quiet endurance. We show up, even when it hurts. And that deserves to be seen.
