The Weight of the World’s Expectations
Growing up, I wasn’t explicitly taught to ignore my pain, suppress my emotions, or push through discomfort as if it were nothing. It wasn’t a lesson in the traditional sense. Instead, it was something I absorbed—from the world around me, from the way people treated me, and from how society seemed to operate. The message was everywhere: you don’t complain, you keep moving forward, and you make the best of what you have. But no one ever told me how to process the pain that never stopped. No one showed me how to recognize my own worth outside of what I could physically accomplish.
As a child, I learned to endure silently because I thought that was what everyone did. I didn’t know that my pain, my symptoms, and the way my body felt every day weren’t normal. To me, it was just life. I had no way of knowing that other children weren’t choking on their own brain stems, weren’t dealing with the unrelenting pressure in their heads, or weren’t pushing their feet to walk in ways that caused pain with every step.
The Unspoken Lessons of Life
Society doesn’t have to tell you directly that your life is worth less—it finds subtler ways to teach that lesson. When you’re a child with visible physical differences, like my clubbed feet, and invisible conditions like Arnold Chiari Malformation (ACM) and the Posterior Fossa Arachnoid Cyst (PFAC), the world notices the things that make you stand out. But instead of acknowledging your struggle, it tends to overlook it or, worse, dismiss it entirely.
I wasn’t explicitly told that I should be grateful for whatever love or attention came my way, but I learned to believe it. I started to feel that I couldn’t ask for more than what I received—that somehow, because I was different, I had to accept whatever came my way. I learned to take love wherever I could find it, not because it was the love I needed or deserved, but because I thought it was all I could get.
The world teaches us to idolize strength. Not the kind of strength that comes from enduring emotional or physical battles every day, but the kind of strength that pushes through without acknowledging pain, without asking for help, and without needing compassion. Society praises those who can endure in silence, who can continue despite their struggles, but it rarely shows understanding for those whose battles can’t be pushed aside so easily.
The First Lesson in Disbelief
It was in grade school—kindergarten or first grade, I think—when I had my first real encounter with the world’s disbelief in my pain. I had been sent home for choking, for nearly passing out from a pressure that, at the time, I couldn’t explain. The school didn’t understand what was happening, and neither did I.
When Dr. Fishbaugh, our family doctor, examined me, I remember standing there as he told my mother, in front of me, that I had probably made it up. That was the first time I was told that my pain wasn’t real, and it wouldn’t be the last. My mother accepted his explanation, and I was taken home and punished for lying, for making up a story about choking when, in truth, I was suffocating on my own brain stem.
That moment stuck with me, not just because of the physical pain, but because it was the first time I realized that my experiences weren’t going to be believed. If a doctor couldn’t understand what was wrong, how could I expect anyone else to? So, I stopped trying to explain. It was easier to keep quiet than to keep being told that what I knew was happening in my body wasn’t real.
Learning to Suppress
When you’re taught—both directly and indirectly—that your pain isn’t valid, you start to suppress it. You push it down, ignore it, and tell yourself that you have no right to feel the way you do. You learn to keep moving forward, to bury your emotions, and to never allow yourself to grieve for the things you’ve lost.
For me, it wasn’t just about suppressing physical pain. It was also about denying myself the right to feel emotionally. When you grow up being told that your pain isn’t real, you start to believe that you don’t deserve to be loved or cared for. You start to feel like you aren’t allowed to be vulnerable, to ask for the kind of love and compassion that could ease your suffering.
As I got older, this suppression became second nature. I didn’t complain about my physical pain, and I certainly didn’t talk about the emotional toll it was taking on me. I didn’t know how to express the grief I felt for the life I never had, the potential I knew I would never reach because of my conditions. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel the loss—it was that I wasn’t allowed to acknowledge it.
The Quiet Grief
There’s a grief that comes with chronic illness and disability, but it’s a grief that society doesn’t recognize. It’s not the kind of grief that comes with a sudden loss, like the death of a loved one. It’s quieter, more insidious, and harder to explain. It’s a grief for the life you could have had, the health that was never yours, and the opportunities that passed you by because your body couldn’t keep up with your mind.
But how do you grieve for something you never had? How do you explain to the world that you’re mourning the potential you lost, the future you never had a chance to pursue? And even if you could explain it, how do you do so without the world mistaking it for self-pity?
I’ve never allowed myself to fully process that grief, even though it’s been there all along. Instead, I’ve carried it quietly, never giving myself the space to truly feel it. I learned early on that I wasn’t supposed to feel sorry for myself, that I wasn’t supposed to complain. And so, the grief stayed inside, unspoken, but always present.
Unlearning the World’s Lies
It wasn’t until later in life that I began to unlearn the lies the world had taught me. I started to realize that my worth wasn’t tied to my physical ability or my ability to endure silently. I began to see that Jehovah had always known my worth, even when the world didn’t. He never asked me to suppress my pain or to pretend that I wasn’t struggling.
Through my faith, I’ve come to understand that all life is precious—even mine. The world may teach us that we’re only valuable if we can contribute in certain ways, but Jehovah teaches us that our value comes from being His creation. Every life, whether it’s filled with pain or not, is precious to Him. He doesn’t expect us to suffer in silence, nor does He expect us to deny our own pain.
Reclaiming My Right to Grieve
One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn is that it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to feel sorrow for the things I’ve lost, for the potential I never had a chance to fulfill. I’ve spent so much of my life pushing that grief aside, pretending it didn’t exist, but now I see that I have a right to acknowledge it.
I grieve not just for myself, but for the impact my health has had on those around me—my wife, my children, and those who have had to watch me struggle. And yet, even in that grief, I find comfort in knowing that Jehovah sees me. He knows my pain, both physical and emotional, and He knows the battles I’ve fought, even when the world doesn’t.
Moving Forward
There’s a power in recognizing your own worth, in unlearning the lies the world has told you. For so long, I thought that I wasn’t allowed to feel my own pain, to grieve my losses, or to ask for the kind of love and care I needed. But now, I see that I am deserving of those things—not because of what I can or can’t do, but because Jehovah values me.
I may never be able to change the way the world views those of us with chronic conditions or disabilities, but I can change the way I view myself. I can reclaim the space to feel my own grief, to acknowledge my pain, and to ask for the love I deserve. And in doing so, I find strength—not from the world’s expectations, but from the knowledge that Jehovah sees me completely.
