Originally published 14 January 2021. Updated 19 September 2026.
Editor’s note: This is Stephanie Berntsen’s first-person account of living with a hidden disability, being doubted and questioning whether she is “disabled enough.” For definitions, terminology and examples, read Invisible Disability: Meaning, Examples and What People Get Wrong.
Living with a hidden disability is hard. I don’t want to stray into “woe is me” territory here. I know I have privileges that others do not, and I even benefit at times from my disability not being immediately visible. But suffering is still suffering.
Almost ten years ago, one of my best friends lost her fiancé, and I lost my mother the following month. There was no competition between us to determine who suffered more, but we noticed that when we spoke of our losses, people would invariably try to compare their own struggles. We began to call that strange comparison the Pain Olympics, a term that has stuck with me ever since.
I constantly measure my emotions—my anger, sorrow, and frustration—to avoid becoming bitter. I recognize that others may look at my situation and genuinely feel they have it worse. And I believe them. That doesn’t change the fact that living with a hidden disability is still difficult.
When disability has to be made visible
I battle my own body and mind as much as I battle societal misconceptions. Many people living with chronic illnesses or hidden disabilities don’t appear any different from healthy individuals. This leads to a long list of misunderstandings. People living with hidden disabilities often bear the burden of making the invisible visible to others. (Source: British Medical Journal.)
Do I even deserve to call myself disabled?
This thought plagues many of us: Do I deserve accommodations? Are there others who need them more? Should I even ask for help?
Logically, I know the answer. Yes, I am disabled. My doctors wouldn’t diagnose me as something I’m not. Yes, I deserve accommodations; they are necessary for me to function. Yes, others may have it worse, but receiving the help I need doesn’t take away from them.
Then there are the external doubts. I’ve had more than my fair share of confrontations with people who don’t understand disability rights or think I’m faking for special treatment. Even within the disability community, a small number engage in the Pain Olympics, diminishing the struggles of others.
Recently, I had a particularly jarring experience. After undergoing a complicated wisdom tooth extraction at 35, I sought emergency treatment. The dentist refused to see me because I had a service animal. I didn’t look disabled enough, he said. He accused me of lying.
That reaction is exactly the kind of assumption challenged by the phrase not all disabilities are visible: appearance is not a reliable test of whether somebody is disabled or needs access.
While I may never experience the struggles of someone who encounters physical barriers, like inaccessible buildings or inaccessible restrooms, or those who are spoken to like children because of their disability, I do understand the disbelief, the accusations, and the self-doubt that can come with having a hidden disability.
What I want people to understand
Whether or not you are living with a hidden disability, we are all human—people trying to survive in a world that can be unkind. Please, be kind. Be understanding. And most importantly, stop comparing suffering. It serves no purpose and doesn’t make anyone feel better.
The disabled community is diverse. Let’s support, rather than alienate, each other. Let’s avoid the games of the oppression olympics.
