disabilityawareness

What happens when the system says “no” at the exact moment you say “yes” to who you are.

I was sitting at the dining room table, writing, when Nick came in with the mail.

“I don’t have my glasses on,” he said. “Can you sort yours from mine?”

I was deep in writing mode, focused. But I took the pile of mail anyway.

There it was—tucked between a campaign flyer for a New York City mayoral candidate and the newest issue of The New Yorker. A thin envelope, just like the ones we used to dread in high school. The ones that meant rejection.

I knew what it was before I opened it.

I thought I was ready. I’d been saying for months that this would happen. I’d told everyone. I’d told myself.

“We have determined you are not disabled.”

Wow.

It wasn’t the paperwork that stung—not the endless forms, the documentation, the medical evaluations, the bureaucratic hoops. That part I’d expected.

The sting came from the finality. A stranger had decided I’m fine. That I’m just... fine. As if my doctors hadn’t documented otherwise. As if the daily reckoning of living in this brain were imaginary.

Denied.

It’s a gut punch.

It’s a door slammed shut, followed by the shock and humiliation of rejection.

I’ll appeal. I have to. That’s how the system works: apply, wait, get denied, appeal. Rinse and repeat.

But the truth? It feels like another twist of the knife. The system demands that you not only survive the first round, but summon the energy and clarity to take on an even harder one—on a rigid 60-day deadline.

And that’s where the cruelty is.

Because most people in my position don’t have the capacity to appeal. The system counts on that. It’s denial by attrition, and it’s baked in.

The system has a name—Social Security Administration, Disability Division—but it feels like Kafka’s Castle: unreachable, faceless, cold. You’re not appealing to a person. You’re appealing to a machine. Not even a well-oiled one—just an outdated one, built for complexity, not care.

The letter itself offers no humanity:

“We have determined...”

No conversation. No empathy. No accountability.

You're left knocking at the gates, told no one inside has time to answer.

And then comes the other kind of denial. The one masked as a compliment. The one that’s meant to be kind but lands as something else entirely:

“You don’t look sick.”

“You seem normal.”

“You’re so articulate.”

I know people mean well. They’re trying to reassure. They’re using the language they have. But it reveals a profound misunderstanding of what disability looks like.

There’s no cast. No wheelchair. No visible cue.

I’ve spent my whole career perfecting performance:

Show up. Smile. Deliver. Hold it together.

And now, that performance is used as evidence that I don’t qualify.

Everyone with an invisible disability lives in this tension:

Perform or collapse?

Appear whole or be believed?

The system’s determination that I am not disabled does not make me able.

The pain, the visual triggers, the anxiety, the sensory overload, the cognitive crashes—they don’t disappear just because of a letter.

The system reduces disability to paperwork.

I live it as a daily negotiation.

There’s a cruel symmetry here. At the very moment I begin to say yes to this part of who I am—to name it—they erase it in the same breath.

They aren’t just denying a claim. They’re denying an identity.

It’s quiet erasure, delivered by mail.

I’ll appeal. I will not let them erase what I live. I will not let them dictate what is real.

You can deny the claim.

You cannot deny me.

Disability, Denied (Mighty-Ready Version)

What happens when the system says “no” at the exact moment you say “yes” to who you are.

I was sitting at the dining room table, writing, when Nick came in with the mail.

“I don’t have my glasses on,” he said. “Can you sort yours from mine?”

I was deep in writing mode, focused. But I took the pile of mail anyway.

There it was—tucked between a campaign flyer for a New York City mayoral candidate and the newest issue of The New Yorker. A thin envelope, just like the ones we used to dread in high school. The ones that meant rejection.

I knew what it was before I opened it.

I thought I was ready. I’d been saying for months that this would happen. I’d told everyone. I’d told myself.

“We have determined you are not disabled.”

Wow.

It wasn’t the paperwork that stung—not the endless forms, the documentation, the medical evaluations, the bureaucratic hoops. That part I’d expected.

The sting came from the finality. A stranger had decided I’m fine. That I’m just... fine. As if my doctors hadn’t documented otherwise. As if the daily reckoning of living in this brain were imaginary.

Denied.

It’s a gut punch.

It’s a door slammed shut, followed by the shock and humiliation of rejection.

I’ll appeal. I have to. That’s how the system works: apply, wait, get denied, appeal. Rinse and repeat.

But the truth? It feels like another twist of the knife. The system demands that you not only survive the first round, but summon the energy and clarity to take on an even harder one—on a rigid 60-day deadline.

And that’s where the cruelty is.

Because most people in my position don’t have the capacity to appeal. The system counts on that. It’s denial by attrition, and it’s baked in.

The system has a name—Social Security Administration, Disability Division—but it feels like Kafka’s Castle: unreachable, faceless, cold. You’re not appealing to a person. You’re appealing to a machine. Not even a well-oiled one—just an outdated one, built for complexity, not care.

The letter itself offers no humanity:

“We have determined...”

No conversation. No empathy. No accountability.

You're left knocking at the gates, told no one inside has time to answer.

And then comes the other kind of denial. The one masked as a compliment. The one that’s meant to be kind but lands as something else entirely:

“You don’t look sick.”

“You seem normal.”

“You’re so articulate.”

I know people mean well. They’re trying to reassure. They’re using the language they have. But it reveals a profound misunderstanding of what disability looks like.

There’s no cast. No wheelchair. No visible cue.

I’ve spent my whole career perfecting performance:

Show up. Smile. Deliver. Hold it together.

And now, that performance is used as evidence that I don’t qualify.

Everyone with an invisible disability lives in this tension:

Perform or collapse?

Appear whole or be believed?

The system’s determination that I am not disabled does not make me able.

The pain, the visual triggers, the anxiety, the sensory overload, the cognitive crashes—they don’t disappear just because of a letter.

The system reduces disability to paperwork.

I live it as a daily negotiation.

There’s a cruel symmetry here. At the very moment I begin to say yes to this part of who I am—to name it—they erase it in the same breath.

They aren’t just denying a claim. They’re denying an identity.

It’s quiet erasure, delivered by mail.

I’ll appeal. I will not let them erase what I live. I will not let them dictate what is real.

You can deny the claim.

You cannot deny me. #InvisibleDisability #disabilityawareness #ChronicIllness #MentalHealth

When I was in elementary school, I was very shy and I still am to this day. I used to get bullied a lot, and I thought that if I stayed quiet, maybe the bullying would stop. But it didn’t. Because of how quiet I was, some of my teachers told my parents that I might have autism. So my parents decided to get me tested. After the evaluation, the doctor told them that I did not have autism. I had ADHD and a learning disability.

Instead of trying to understand how I learned or helping me in a way that fit my needs, my school decided to hold me back. While my classmates were learning new things in math and science, I was sent to a separate room to relearn the same basic material. I stayed in the same school district from elementary school all the way through high school, and not once did anyone try to figure out what type of learner I was. A learning disability does not mean you cannot learn. It just means you learn in a different way. But instead of taking the time to support me and help me grow, they gave me the same work over and over again. In that way, I believe my school district failed me.

Because of that experience, I now struggle in college. I am constantly trying to catch up and teach myself things I should have learned a long time ago. There are times when I sit in class and feel so far behind. I feel like I am not smart enough to be there. But no one in my school district ever believed I would go to college, so they did not think it was important to teach me. When I got to college, I had to completely change how I thought and how I learned. They say it takes thirty days to reprogram your brain, but my freshman year felt like a wake-up call that hit me hard.

College forced me to step up. I had to put in the work not only to study for my college courses but also to learn the things I was never taught. My days were filled with trying to balance both. I was constantly studying, constantly trying to understand the material, constantly working to prove that I belong here.

This is why believing in yourself is so important. So many people told me that I was not going to get into college. To be honest, I did not even think college was a real option for me until my junior year of high school. My school counselors and special education teachers told me that I should just go to community college and become a dental assistant. But I told myself that I was going to be a dentist. I was going to be a doctor.

Never let anyone tell you what you cannot do. If God put a dream in your heart, that means you have the ability to make it happen. God will never put you in a situation you are not strong enough to handle. You have to believe in yourself and keep going. Overcoming a learning disability is hard, but it is possible. Some days are tough. There are times I feel so discouraged. But I remind myself that I am not the only one struggling. Everyone has challenges. Our situations may be different, but we are all trying to figure it out.

Mindset is everything. I read a quote in a book called Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen that says thinking becomes reality. And that stuck with me. College is already difficult, and having a learning disability makes it even harder. But the reason I have made it this far and am now going into my junior year is because I know who I am. I know I deserve to be in college. I know I am smart enough to be here, even if others never saw that in me.

Growing up, I was never good at biology or math. Now I am a biology major. I could study biology all day. I still hate math, and I still struggle with it, but I work hard to understand it the best I can. I stay up all night studying because I want to succeed. My sleep schedule is awful, but I am doing it for my future. I want to be a dentist, and I know I can get there.

Always believe in yourself. Always have faith in your potential. If you can dream it, you can do it!

#learingdisability #ADHD #collegelife #disabilityawareness #MentalHealth #selfbelief #OvercomingObstacles #InvisibleDisability #Neurodiversity #EducationSystem #iamcapable #FutureDentist #StudyStruggles #believeinyourself

Hello everyone,

I want to share a very disappointing experience with PayPal and see if any of you have encountered similar issues.

On March 7, 2024, I bought a graphics card on Rakuten. After the 14-day withdrawal period, I realized it was defective. I tried to contact the seller several times, but I never received a response. Rakuten then informed me that the deadline for filing a claim had passed, so they could no longer do anything for me. Thinking that PayPal could help me with their purchase protection service, I filed a dispute.

On April 18, 2024, PayPal offered me a refund on the condition that I return the item. Unfortunately, being very busy with my work, especially due to the Olympic Games, I did not see this message in time. And there, surprise: the case was closed without me being able to intervene. What shocks me is that PayPal, which never hesitates to send notifications for a failed payment (via SMS, notifications in the app, etc.), only sent me one email for such an important dispute. If you miss this email, it’s over, no possibility to reopen the case. Frankly, it makes me wonder if this isn't a way to save money on refunds for disputes. It's outrageous!

What makes the situation even more difficult is that access to the dispute manager is only possible through the web browser. The PayPal Android app, on the other hand, does not contain either the dispute manager or messaging. So you really must not miss that one email because if you rely on the app to keep you informed, you're left completely in the dark.

What worries me even more is how this system seems to neglect people who, like me, have specific difficulties. I suffer from ADHD, which complicates my daily management of information. I really need clear and repeated notifications, but it seems that PayPal does not take these realities into account. They prefer to send endless reminders for a slight payment delay, but for an important dispute? Nothing, except for a simple email. And what about people who are not comfortable with technology? They must feel completely abandoned by this system.

Following this incident, I contacted PayPal again in August. They offered me another option on August 20, but once again, I didn't discover the email until August 29, after the offer had expired on the 28th. Between two other emails regarding a payment in installments, this message went unnoticed. I called PayPal again to try to find a solution, but I doubt they will make any further gestures this time.

I'm seriously considering changing platforms. Alternatives like Stripe, Square, Payoneer, Venmo, Google Pay, Apple Pay, or Skrill seem to offer better tracking and user protection. Does anyone here have experience with these platforms?

I've been a PayPal customer since 2010, and until now, I've always been satisfied. But now, I'm really disappointed and angry. This situation is unacceptable to me, and I would like to know if others have any advice or feedback on alternative solutions.

Thank you in advance for your responses.

#ADHD #disabilityawareness #MentalHealth #ChronicIllness #Accessibility #Neurodiversity #invisibledisabilities #Advocacy #Paypal #ConsumerRights