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Disability, Denied
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 Not even a well-oiled one—just an outdated one, built for complexity, not care.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
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