How It Feels Like To Be The Youngest With an Invisible Illness
They say I live in a dreamland.
Because I don’t shout.
Because I don’t fight back.
Because I choose peace over proving a point.
Because I’m the youngest — and somehow, that means I must not know anything.
But they don’t understand.
I don’t avoid conflict because I’m weak.
I avoid it because I’ve seen what it does.
I’ve seen the way words can slice deeper than silence.
I’ve felt the heaviness of family tension —
and I’d rather hold my breath than add to the fire.
I’m a simple person.
I love soft things.
Gentle energy.
People who get it — who ask questions, who listen, who don’t try to fix me or judge me.
Just understand me.
But that’s not how it works in my family.
They don’t call to say “How are you?”
They don’t call when I’m sick.
When I’m falling apart.
When I’m barely holding myself together with fragile hands and a stitched-up smile.
They only remember me when I’m in crisis —
when I’m in bed with pain clawing at my body,
when I can’t walk without wincing,
when my autoimmune disease steals the strength I fought so hard to build.
And somehow, it’s still about them.
“Why are you so distant?”
“Why don’t you call more?”
“Why do you act like you’re better than us?”
I’m not acting.
I’m surviving.
I’m trying to exist in a body that betrays me daily,
while also tiptoeing through family dynamics that demand more than I can give.
They think I’m “too sensitive.”
But maybe I just feel more deeply than they’re willing to admit.
They show their faces—
but they never stay long enough to know what it feels like to be me.
They don’t ask about my triggers, my pain levels, my sleepless nights.
They assume, they decide, they judge — and I stay quiet, because arguing never healed me.
I’m not living in a dreamland.
I’m just dreaming of a world where peace is enough.
Where softness isn’t mistaken for weakness.
Where being the youngest doesn’t mean being invisible.
Where family shows up not only when they
Want something-
but when I’m trying to rebuild.
Until then, I’ll stay here in my quiet corner.
Not because I don’t care.
But because I care too much to keep letting it hurt me.
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