On December 3rd, the International Day for Persons with Disabilities, I posted about my cane. Her name is Spider Monkey (yes, Twilight fans, you caught that reference), and I also shared a hard truth: I’m still sometimes ashamed to use it. The comments I received were kind and encouraging—things like, “You have nothing to be ashamed of!” (duhhhhh)—but they all missed the point. What most people don’t realize, and what frustrates me the most, is that those comments, as nice as they are, aren’t for me. They’re for you.

Your inspired sentences, as comforting as they may sound, are completely irrelevant to my reality. I’m not ashamed of needing my cane. I’m not ashamed of my body or my disabilities. What makes me uncomfortable—what truly hurts—is the way society reacts: the weird looks, the intrusive questions, and the downright rude comments. Those are the things that make stepping outside with Spider Monkey feel like stepping into a spotlight I never asked for.

When I hold my cane, I’m not holding a symbol of weakness; I’m holding a tool that gives me freedom, independence, and safety. But society doesn’t see that. Society only sees a paradox: someone young, dressed well, smiling—and disabled. That disconnect creates friction everywhere I go.

So let me introduce myself properly: I’m Natasha Gol. I’m 26 years old, and I have a genetic syndrome called Ehlers-Danlos, which affects my entire body. I also live with endometriosis, PTSD, and I’m AuDHD. But those labels are just part of who I am. I’m also an outstanding MA student in society, communication, and media, an aspiring researcher and professor, a person with a killer sense of style, and someone with too many hobbies to list. My disabilities are part of me, but they are not all of me.

Sick Kid to Disabled Adult

I’ve been disabled since birth, though for a long time, no one called it that. Growing up, I was just the “sick kid.” Always in and out of doctor’s offices, missing school, and feeling out of place in my own body. It wasn’t until I started getting diagnosed that things began to make sense. Understanding my conditions, taking medications, doing physical and mental therapy—these things helped me finally stop being “sick” and start being me.

When I became officially disabled at 19 and began receiving financial support from social security back home, my life changed. I went from being a “troubled teen with unfulfilled potential” to a focused adult chasing her dreams. For the first time, I had the tools and the stability to work toward what I wanted—a career in academia, a life filled with purpose and goals.

But the transition wasn’t without its challenges. Even with diagnoses, therapy, and support, I felt like I was navigating two worlds: one where I could own my identity as a disabled woman and another where I was constantly questioned, doubted, and underestimated.

Disability doesn’t come with a roadmap. No one tells you how to navigate the exhaustion of appointments, the frustration of inaccessible spaces, or the loneliness of being misunderstood. You figure it out as you go—and you learn to carry the weight of other people’s expectations along the way.

The Anxiety of Being “Not Disabled Enough”

On days when my body is screaming but my ego wins, I leave the house without my cane. And every public transport ride turns into an anxiety minefield. I sit there, silently praying that no pregnant person or elderly passenger will get on, because if they do, I’ll have to make a choice: stay seated and endure the glares that say, “You don’t look disabled enough to keep that seat,” or stand up and betray my own body to appease strangers’ expectations.

Even when I do bring Spider Monkey with me, it’s not always easier. A cane invites questions—some innocent, some intrusive, and some just plain cruel.

​•​“What happened to you?”

​•​“You’re too young to need that.”

​•​“You don’t really need it, do you?”

The hardest part isn’t answering these questions—it’s resisting the urge to ask them right back: What happened to you? Why are you so entitled to judge my body? Why do you think I owe you an explanation?

Living with a disability that isn’t always visible means constantly walking a tightrope. You’re too disabled for some people and not disabled enough for others. It’s exhausting, and it’s isolating.

I don’t have all the answers yet. I’m still figuring things out, and that’s okay. What I do know is this: my discomfort and shame don’t come from within—they come from the world around me. It’s not my body or my cane that’s the problem; it’s the ableism, the ignorance, and the societal standards that insist on boxing people into neat, tidy categories.

Spider Monkey is a tool that gives me freedom, independence, and safety. She’s a part of my journey, just like my diagnoses, my achievements, and my dreams. But until society learns to meet disabled people with curiosity instead of judgment, even something as empowering as a cane will come with baggage.

A Not So Friendly Reminder

Another frustrating challenge of being a young disabled adult—whether your disability is invisible or completely visible—is the relentless flood of unsolicited advice and disbelief. People seem to struggle with the idea that disability can happen to someone who isn’t elderly. When you’re a young adult, you’re bombarded with comments like, “But you’re too young to be disabled!” or unhelpful suggestions like, “Have you tried yoga?”, “Maybe you’re just too focused on your health issues.”, “Lemon water every morning works wonders!”— Here’s the thing: sometimes life is random and unfair, and being disabled isn’t limited to one age group.

As for focusing on my health, first of all I do! The one thing someone with invisible disability is really good at is compartmentalizing. The second thing is masking so we won’t have to feel like party poopers. But even if we do have days that that’s all we think about, so what? Believe me, I’d love to think about literally anything else, but it’s hard to forget when I have five specialist appointments in a single month and have been in constant pain since I was four years old. And yes, I have tried yoga—despised every second of it, it’s too quiet for me, I prefer lifting weights. I love sports, but only in a way my body can handle: adjusted to me and carefully supervised.

Changing the Narrative

This December 3rd, let’s move beyond empty platitudes like, “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” Let’s challenge ourselves to listen, learn, and unlearn. Understand that disability isn’t always visible. Stop assuming, staring, and questioning things that aren’t yours to question.

And to be clear, I’m not saying that having an invisible (or almost invisible) disability is harder than having a visible one. This isn’t a pity contest. Every disabled person faces their own unique challenges, and one experience isn’t “worse” than the other. It’s just different. Having an invisible disability comes with its own set of struggles—like constantly having to “prove” your disability or being judged for not fitting the stereotypical image of what disability looks like. But that doesn’t mean it’s harder—it’s just a different fight in the same battle against ableism.

Because at the end of the day, the problem isn’t my cane or my body. It’s the way society reacts to them. And until that changes, Spider Monkey and I will keep showing up, one step at a time, reclaiming and taking space.