This photo was taken a few weeks after I first became ill. My son was two years old at the time.


I am an “undercover disabled woman.”  I don’t look disabled.  Or at least, disabled in the way I had always thought disabled people look.  Disabled like my grandma — a woman who, on a good day, could slowly get around with her cane, and on most days, was reliant on her wheelchair.  A woman who didn’t drive, whose body was ravaged from the effects of rheumatoid arthritis, strokes, and breast cancer.

I’m not that bad.

But one of the things I’ve learned in the seven-and-a-half years I’ve been living with an autoimmune disease, is that there is no black-or-white definition for any of it.  No clear-cut way a disabled person looks or acts.  No concrete way in which to explain an autoimmune disease.

So I write about mine, in the hopes that it will reach someone who needs to read it.  Someone who is also dealing with medical issues, or who knows someone who is.

Which brings me to one of my personal essays that was recently published on The Mighty. You can click here to read “Why I Can’t ‘Wear My Scar’ With Pride.”


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