Sometimes, being disabled means being invisible.
And sometimes, it means being so visible that people feel entitled to your story before you’ve even opened your mouth.
That’s the double-edged sword of disability visibility: it isn’t always a choice.
When I’m out with my service dog but without my wheelchair, people will ask me, “What’s the dog for?” as if my diagnosis is a public information kiosk. Or worse, they assume I’m just sneaking my pet into a store or restaurant and hit me with, “No pets allowed,” before they even register the vest.
And when they do see the vest? “Must be nice to take your dog everywhere.”
I wish I could make people understand: I don’t bring my dog everywhere because I want to. I bring them because I have to. Because that dog keeps me safe. Because that dog is trained to do work that mitigates my disability. But when you’re visibly disabled in an unconventional way, people often assume entitlement to an explanation.
It’s not just about service dogs, either. Visibility shows up in unexpected ways:
- A continuous glucose monitor (CGM) on your arm or leg that people stare at
- A student getting scolded for “being on their phone” when they’re actually checking their blood sugar
- An employee being told they can’t have their phone out, even when it’s medically necessary
- A hearing aid or cochlear implant prompting people to speak loudly or slowly, making assumptions
- A prosthetic limb being gawked at or treated as a conversation starter
- A white cane triggering awkward apologies or unnecessary help
These aren’t just awkward moments. They’re barriers. They’re reminders that while your body may make your disability visible, people’s understanding often lags far behind.
And then there are the classics:
- “You don’t look disabled.”
- “You’re too young to need that spot.”
- “You can walk, so why do you need a wheelchair sometimes?”
Disability doesn’t follow a script. But people seem to expect it to.
One of the more painful forms of involuntary visibility comes with parking. I’ve had people glare, scold, and even confront me for using a valid disability parking permit. The irony? It’s often seniors or other disabled people doing the policing — as if our existence somehow threatens their legitimacy.
But disability is not a competition.
You can’t always see chronic illness. You can’t always understand support needs from a glance. And even when you can see them, you don’t know the story behind them.
I didn’t choose to be visible this way. None of us did. And yet, here we are — navigating the world in bodies and minds that don’t always give us the option of privacy.
Sometimes, visibility leads to advocacy.
Sometimes, it leads to judgement.
And sometimes, it just makes a trip to the grocery store harder than it needs to be.
So if you see someone with a visible disability, or assistive tech, or a support animal — and you’re tempted to comment, stare, or ask a question — remember:
Not all visibility is voluntary.
Some of us just want to buy cereal in peace.