When Pain Looks Normal: Living with Chronic Pain in a World That Doesn’t See It
By: Brandon Matthew Deen, Sr.
I live with chronic pain. Who deals with it? Millions of others like me, even if you don't see it. What is it? A constant battle under the surface, tied to my multiple sclerosis, that impacts how I function every day. When? All the tiresome days are worse than others, but they never entirely leave. Where? Everywhere I go, in everything I do. Why? Because this disease doesn't care about convenience, timing, or what kind of day I had planned. Chronic pain is part of my life now. But to the outside world? I look normal. And that disconnect is one of the most complex parts.
The pain doesn't punch in like a 9-to-5 job. It shows up whenever it wants, morning, night, middle of a conversation, halfway through a task. Some days it's a burning ache in my legs. Other days, it's like sharp shocks running through my back. There are times I can almost convince myself I'm okay until I turn the wrong way or stand too long, and that familiar pain floods in like a reminder: You're not in control. It's invisible to everyone else, but I carry it with me constantly. Whether I'm sitting, walking, working, or just trying to rest, pain is part of the equation.
People love to say, "But you don't look like you're in pain," as if to reassure me. But looking "fine" doesn't mean I feel fine. Chronic pain doesn't always come with a limp, a grimace, or anything visible. It hides under clothes, behind smiles, and inside the mask of daily survival. Looking okay is part of the survival strategy, what we do to make it through the day. But just because I'm not falling apart in front of you doesn't mean my body isn't screaming underneath it all.
Living with chronic pain turns you into an expert actor. I've worked full days with my spine feeling like it was splintering. I've smiled through dinners with friends while silently counting the minutes until I could go home and collapse. Every smile, every nod, every polite response becomes a choice pretending you're okay, or deal with everyone's discomfort when you tell the truth. I'm not faking the good moments. I'm just good at hiding the hard ones. That doesn't make them less real.
If there were a magic fix for food, a stretch, a belief, a supplement, a breathing method, I promise you, I would have found it. I've heard it all: "Have you tried yoga?" "Maybe it's gluten." "It's probably stress." Most of the time, people mean well. But what they don't realize is how dismissive that can feel. I'm not lazy. I'm not ignoring solutions. I'm living with something that has no easy answers. I don't need your advice. Could you believe me?
