Apparently, I'm an Embarrassment

Sarah Mitchell is a 44-year-old from the Midwest living with chronic pain who agreed to share her story with Modern Pain Relief.

Yesterday, I thought I was having a good day.

My shoulder has been killing me for weeks now – the doctors say it's a bulging disc in my neck that's affecting everything. My legs feel like they're made of lead, and I can barely drag my right leg around. The arm sling makes everything awkward, and I move much slower than I used to. But I was determined to make it to Dollar Tree. Just a quick trip. A few things I needed. A small store. I could handle that, right? I chose Dollar Tree specifically because it's smaller than the grocery store. I knew my limits, or at least I thought I did. I left my fiancé in the car with the kids since they were sleeping, and I shuffled my way inside. Here's the thing that surprised me: people were incredibly kind. A stranger held the door without me even asking. When I dropped something, someone immediately picked it up for me. Another person offered to help me reach something on a higher shelf. These weren't people who knew me or owed me anything. They could clearly see I was struggling with my sling and unsteady gait, and they simply responded with human kindness. For once, I didn't feel like a burden. I felt like someone deserving of basic compassion. I managed to get everything I needed. I was actually proud of myself – exhausted and in pain, but proud. I had maintained some independence. I had accomplished something that used to be so simple but now felt like climbing a mountain. When I made it back to the car, breathless and hurting but successful, I asked my fiancé to pull around closer so I wouldn't have to walk as far. That's when he said it. "I wish you wouldn't have gone shopping today. It looks really embarrassing with your arm in that thing and you can barely walk." The words hit me like a physical blow. I was already feeling self-conscious about how I looked, how I moved, how much help I needed. But hearing that the person who's supposed to love me unconditionally was embarrassed by me? It felt like the air was sucked out of my lungs.

I wasn't just in pain. I was embarrassing him too.

He went on to say it would be even worse when I get the wheelchair I've been wanting – something that could actually help me maintain more independence and reduce my daily suffering. "I know having a partner with visible disabilities is hard," I told myself, trying to rationalize his feelings. "His feelings are valid too." But sitting there in that parking lot, something inside me cracked. Here's what really gets me: complete strangers showed me more compassion in that Dollar Tree than the man I'm planning to marry. Think about that for a moment. People who had never seen me before, who didn't know my story, who had no obligation to help me – they saw someone struggling and instinctively reached out with kindness. But the person who shares my bed, who knows my pain intimately, who has watched me fight this battle every single day – he saw me struggling and felt... shame. When did we collectively agree that moving differently, walking slower, or using mobility aids is shameful rather than brave?

The Weight of "Embarrassing"

That word – embarrassing – it's been playing on repeat in my head. I keep thinking about all the times I've pushed myself beyond my limits to avoid being seen as weak or burdensome. All the times I've suffered in silence because asking for help felt like admitting failure. All the times I've avoided going out because I was afraid of the stares and judgment that come with visible disability. And now I know that even my fiancé, my supposed partner in life, sees my struggles as something shameful. The thing is, I didn't choose this. I didn't wake up one day and decide, "You know what sounds fun? Chronic pain and mobility issues." This is my reality, not my choice. I am not embarrassing for existing in a body that doesn't work the way it used to. I am not embarrassing for needing a sling or walking differently or taking longer to do simple tasks. I am not embarrassing for wanting to maintain whatever independence I can, even if it's messy and imperfect and visible.

What Partnership Really Means

We're planning our wedding, and I've been thinking about those traditional vows: "in sickness and in health." I thought we both understood what that would mean. It doesn't mean "in sickness and in health, as long as the sickness isn't visible or inconvenient or embarrassing." It should mean standing by someone when their body betrays them. It should mean being proud of their courage, not ashamed of their struggles. It should mean understanding that love isn't just for the easy times. When I see elderly couples where one spouse is in a wheelchair and the other is pushing them lovingly through the grocery store, I don't see anything embarrassing. I see devotion. I see partnership. I see love in action. When I see someone using a walker or moving slowly through the world, I don't see embarrassment. I see someone refusing to give up. I see someone fighting to live their life on their own terms. Why should my situation be any different?

The Reality of Visible Disability

Here's what people don't understand about living with visible physical limitations: you're constantly calculating and constantly aware of how others perceive you. Can I make it through this store? Should I bring my cane and deal with the stares, or push through without it and risk falling? Will I have enough energy to cook dinner if I go out this morning? How much will I pay for this activity tomorrow? Every single decision is filtered through pain and limitation and the awareness that people are watching how you move, how you struggle, how different you look. And when the people closest to you confirm those fears – when they tell you that yes, you are too much, you are embarrassing, you should hide your struggles – it's devastating. It makes you want to disappear entirely.

The Kindness of Strangers

But here's what gives me hope: those strangers in Dollar Tree. They didn't know me from anyone, but they saw someone who needed help and they helped. No questions, no judgment, no embarrassment. That elderly man who held the door didn't act like it was a burden. The young woman who picked up my dropped items didn't roll her eyes. The employee who helped me reach something didn't make me feel small. They treated me like a human being deserving of basic kindness. If strangers can do that, why can't the people who claim to love us?

What I Want You to Know

If you're reading this and you recognize yourself in my story – if you've ever been made to feel embarrassing or burdensome because of your health challenges – please know this: You are not too much. Your pain is real. Your struggles are valid. Your desire for independence and dignity is not selfish or unreasonable. You deserve to be loved fully, including the parts of you that hurt. You deserve partners who see your courage, not your limitations. You deserve to move through the world without shame. If you're reading this and you recognize someone you love in my story – if you've ever felt embarrassed by a partner's or family member's health challenges – I want you to sit with that feeling. Ask yourself why their pain makes you uncomfortable. Ask yourself what's more important: how others perceive you, or how supported your loved one feels. Your discomfort with their disability is not their problem to solve.

Moving Forward

I don't know what happens next with our relationship. I don't know if this was a moment of weakness and poor judgment, or a glimpse into deeper issues that need to be addressed before we say "I do." What I do know is that I deserve better than being someone's source of shame. I deserve to use whatever mobility aids I need without apology. I deserve to move through the world at my own pace without being rushed or hidden. I deserve to fight for my independence without being criticized for the way it looks. We all do. If you're fighting this fight alongside me, know that you're not alone. Know that your worth isn't determined by your ability level or how smoothly you can navigate the world. Know that there are people out there – sometimes strangers, sometimes friends, sometimes chosen family – who will see your struggles and respond with kindness instead of shame. Hold onto those people. They're the ones who matter. And to everyone else – the ones who whisper about how "difficult" or "embarrassing" we are – we're not going anywhere. We're not hiding. We're living our lives as fully as we can, exactly as we are. And there's nothing embarrassing about that.

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