There’s a certain appropriateness spending Disability Awareness Month sick with a flu and then an upper respiratory infection. As a person living with a chronic thyroid condition, I appreciate how July recognizes my daily struggles and encourages understanding. At the start of the month, I outlined an uplifting post about my disability because I made more progress in understanding my illness, my body, and even my limitations in the last two years than in the previous six. To rely on a cliché: I was in a good place.

When the struggle to overcome the flu and keep my job became an autoimmune slaughterhouse, everything I wanted to write boiled and frothed with anger. There was no more “buck up buddy” mantra to lessen the successive defeats—the aches in my back from lying in bed, the progressive boredom of watching TV, the helplessness of needing care. “Look how well you’re doing!” only works when you feel well.

Chronic illness oscillates between highs and lows, and grief is always lurking around the corner waiting to attack you when you feel your worst. My biggest hurdle has always been comparison. I envied healthy, able-bodied friends who did things I could no longer do. Then I hated myself for not being more grateful for what I was capable of and for what I did have. My aunt endured major life adjustments from a stroke, and I complained about not being able to go for a walk or spend a day shopping. What kind of person am I? A normal one.

The expression “It could always be worse!” always runs laps through my mind, making moments of sadness akin to indulgent childhood tantrums. That’s not fair to me or to any person struggling with a disability. We do not have to be okay all the time. We do not have to be beacons of inspiration and positivity.

Living with a disability or chronic illness is hard, and for most of us, it is never going away. Because there are other people with more severe disabilities does not negate how we feel about ourselves, and we shouldn’t feel the need to pretend we are always thankful and content.

I love the expression “sitting in your feelings” because it acknowledges we experience a range of emotions. More than that, it gives you permission to explore the negative ones like depression and frustration. You’re allowed to not be happy, and recognizing that truth can help you. Experiencing those feelings does not mean they become a permanent mindset but persistent denial causes long term stress on your mental health. The emotions will always out.

Naturally, I’m terrible with it because I’ve always been the kind of person who focuses on positive feelings, on accomplishments and goals. Admitting I now have limitations evolved into a form of vulnerability and even weakness, and I always saw myself as a strong person. Nevertheless, I needed to accept that when I could barely walk and needed IV fluids to avoid an emergency room visit, I was weak. That weakness did not detract from my strength of character, but a positive mindset and “can do” attitude could not will me into health. There’s no such thing as a “wiggle your big toe” moment with a disability.

The worst part of the experience is I worked from home so long I forgot how invisible illness creates this need to convince people you are sick or in pain. When I returned to work, everyone raved about how great I looked, which I genuinely believe came from a kind space. My energy was depleted, and I was racked with a persistent aching soreness. I only had two doses of antibiotic treatment and required an inhaler multiple times. But I looked “great!” How sick could I be?

Like others dealing with chronic pain and illness, I spend an inordinate amount of time curating how the world sees me. I slap on makeup and a smile and pretend I am fine even when I can barely stand. The dehydration from the flu also caused extreme autoimmune flairs. My muscles contracted with jolting spasms, and my joints crackled with pain. One early morning, I woke with tears on my cheeks. The inflammation hurt so badly I cried in my sleep. Three days later, I was back at work and looked “great!” I ask again: how sick could I be?

Invisible illness also requires verification. Your word is nothing compared to the holy grail of bona fide sickness documentation: The Doctor’s Note. I spent half of a paycheck in doctor’s visits and notes just to keep my job, and I now need to spend additional money for job accommodation documentation. What accommodations? A consistent schedule. Not shorter hours or only working the same days. Not less physical responsibility. I simply need a schedule which does not vary wildly from day to day or week to week.

Apart from my dietary shift, consistency is the biggest factor in managing my illness. I wake up, eat, exercise, take medication, and sleep at roughly the same time every day. Part of my illness also causes insomnia, so ensuring I maintain the same sleep schedule is paramount to keeping my immune system robust. Much though it pains me to admit, I cannot transition from getting up at 6:30a.m. to coming home from work at 11p.m. the next day. My body will not stay healthy long, but that is what I was asked to do.

People with disabilities often never want to show vulnerability. We feel like we have to be strong and conceal our suffering. So I tried. I tried to deal with the bouncing schedule and the irregular meals and the exhaustion from not sleeping. Despite being clear in my initial interview as well as through training that this would be a problem, my invisible illness and how “great” I look undermined my physical needs.

I felt and sometimes still feel ashamed of my body for failing me and guilty for needing accommodations. Where do these feelings originate though? Have I not demonstrated to myself and employer what I am capable of and what value I bring to a company, a team, and most importantly, to customers?

When the platitude post imploded into a pile of depression-filled debris, I realized how much grief I still carry from chronic illness becoming a permanent fixture in my life. I never allowed myself to grieve the loss of the body that went five years without a cold, that worked through the night and into the day, and that had no dietary restrictions or special conditions required to stay healthy. Instead I clung to the misconception if I worked hard enough and put my mind to it, I’d be healthy again through sheer force of will.

Permanent disability and chronic illness do not work that way. You can make strides. You can adapt and find purpose for your energies. Hopefully, you can accept and love yourself for who you are and the person you became. But you cannot will or wish them away.

My own struggles taught me more about compassion and understanding. It taught me to see the value in people rather than in their bodies. I often wonder how the medical field would be different if it was not so prohibitive against disabled people. How much more understanding would we have for how the body and illness work if the people practicing medicine went through the soul-sucking defeatism of visiting doctor after doctor without proper diagnosis or treatment? How many of us would still contend with disability?

As the month draws to a close, I want to finish this post with the thought I always need to remind myself of: It’s okay not to be okay. Be it mental or physical illness, trauma, or grief, we will all experience times in life when we force ourselves to be brave but disingenuous about how we feel. Negative emotions do not detract from who we are nor do they mean we are not grateful for what we still have. We can be messy but beautiful, grateful but bitter, proud but defeated, accepting but frustrated, hopeful but depressed.

If you have a loved one, friend, or even coworker who struggles with disability, be there for them. Just because we look “great,” doesn’t mean we feel that way. Many of us are hurting, often in more ways than one.

To my fellow disabled people, keep your chins up, sit in your feelings when you need to, and never feel like you aren’t enough as you are right now. We are human. Our lives have impact and value, even if we have to live them differently.