As of 2024, 61 million Americans were reported to have a disability of some kind. Of those 61 million, 10% of them were “Americans with disabilities that offer no evidence of their presence through visual clues.” In other words, people whose disabilities were invisible.
Invisible disabilities can range from neurological conditions to chronic pain to internal medical disorders. My disability, POTS syndrome — a condition in which blood is not properly circulated throughout the body — falls under the latter. Whenever I make positional changes, it leaves me with brain fog, dizziness, and in rare cases, loss of consciousness.
Three years ago, I obtained a 504 plan, which is a set of accommodations approved by the school; it’s intended to give me necessary breathing room in the aftermath of my POTS by permitting tardiness to class. Yet, unfortunately, even in a community that prides itself on its inclusive nature, I’ve spent too much time since then fighting to be heard.
Although my accommodation plan has not been outwardly breached or ignored with malicious intent, I have had to prove myself and the “credibility” of my disability on a regular basis because others cannot see any differences — and therefore assume they don’t exist.
For one, some teachers often forget my tardiness is excused, despite it appearing on my Infinite Campus profile and me personally speaking to them at the beginning of the school year. Viewing my late arrival as a sign of disrespect, they attempt to call me out for being disruptive. In this scenario, my options are to apologize and sit down or explain myself and subsequently reveal my medical history to my classmates. One option is deeply embarrassing, and the other involves exposing extremely personal aspects of my life — neither of which are preferable at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday. And when my unexcused tardies pile up, I get to go on the administrative adventure of trying to get a tardy detention cleared.
Even when I’m not facing technical difficulties, it’s hard not to notice the judgmental glances and confused looks when I walk through the door late, all coming from peers who don’t understand why I would need accommodations when I don’t “look” disabled (PSA: There’s no way to look disabled). In isolation, these situations could be chalked up to unavoidable human error and misunderstandings. However, when they add up, they become exhausting. They make me feel as though I need to struggle for the understanding I should have been granted as soon as I received my diagnosis.
I acknowledge that these discrepancies are unintentional, and I’m still grateful for the understanding I have been given in some regards. After all, both teachers and administrative staff are trying their best and working with the resources that they have. Nonetheless, in an environment that preaches accommodating diversity, this pattern is indicative of a broader societal issue — a trend of people with hidden conditions having to prove themselves in a world that treats their disabilities as though they do not matter.
Whether it’s the difficulty we undergo when getting diagnosed in the first place, the assumptions we face from those who only have half of the story, or the battles we fight to be seen, our lives are made harder than they should be on a regular basis — often by the same people who preach equality and diversity. Unfortunately, putting on a facade of inclusion and then turning around to brush people with invisible disabilities under the rug without respect or empathy is not true inclusivity.
Real inclusivity means incorporating all people with disabilities in important conversations regarding accessibility and equity. It means approaching us with understanding, acknowledgement and an open mind. Above all else, it means realizing that we don’t owe anyone an explanation. Because even though our disabilities are invisible, we aren’t.
