by Rifa Tusnia Mona (Dhaka, Bangladesh)
Image of a vast, white sky and ground covered in small brown pebbles. A person with a backpack stands far away, staring off in the distance.
It’s already been a month since I moved to Lisbon. As an Asian girl setting foot in Europe for the first time, almost everything feels new — the culture, the streets, even the rhythm of everyday life. My university is about an hour away from my dormitory, and each morning I take the Carris — the public bus. It’s often crowded, especially during rush hour. On days when I’m carrying groceries, standing becomes a real struggle.
At the front of the Carris, there are four seats reserved for the elderly, pregnant women, parents with children, and people with disabilities. Every time I see those signs, I ask myself quietly:
Where do I fit in?
Am I “normal”?
Am I someone with a disability?
For a blind person or someone in a wheelchair, the condition is visible — their challenges are seen and, therefore, more understood. But for someone like me, living with Crohn’s disease, the weakness is invisible. Even carrying my laptop sometimes feels like lifting a boulder. On bad days, groceries are out of the question.
A few times, I’ve taken one of those reserved seats just to rest for a moment — and on more than one occasion, an older passenger scolded me in Portuguese. I didn’t have the words, or the energy, to explain.
To make things easier, I sometimes order my groceries online. But when the delivery person arrives and I ask them to carry the bags up the stairs, I often get that same puzzled, slightly judgmental look — as if I’m just being lazy.
The truth is, many people still don’t know what Crohn’s disease is. And when you’re in a new country with a language barrier, explaining your condition to every stranger sometimes isn’t possible.
One day, I was sharing this with a senior from my university. She listened and then said something that stuck with me:
“From the outside, you just look a bit tired and thin. A lot of people are like that. How would anyone know what you’re going through?”
And she was right. There’s no visible “signature” for people with invisible illnesses like IBD. No sign that quietly says, I’m struggling, even if you can’t see it.
That “signature” matters — not just for access to certain rights or support, but also for empathy. When people can recognize what you’re dealing with, even without words, life becomes just a little more humane.
I’ve been thinking: instead of only pushing for general awareness, maybe it’s time for a more practical step — some kind of universal identifier for invisible disabilities. It could be a color band, a card, a small badge — something that lets others know that, while we may look fine, we’re fighting battles they can’t see.
Because when life is already heavy with these hidden challenges, constantly having to explain yourself shouldn’t be another weight to carry.
Thank you for reading. See you next month.
Featured photo by Kyle Miller from Pexels.