I wrote a story for a Moth StorySLAM on October 2nd, 2025. The theme was Masks. It's the first story I've tried to tell at the Moth. My name didn't end up getting pulled from the hat, but I did get to enjoy incredible anxiety during an evening of stories!

The Story

When I was 27 years old, I became gradually, then suddenly, and invisibly, disabled.

It started as a sharp pain in my right foot, but I had been running so that was probably nothing. Two weeks later, my left foot started hurting, which was still probably nothing. Two more weeks and my wrists started tingling. But I had played a lot of violin that weekend, so that was also probably nothing.

Another two weeks, and the rest of my body fell to pain, all at once. I woke up dizzy, exhausted, and I could barely stand. My muscles couldn't seem to relax, and painful electricity surged throughout my body. Finally, undeniably, I knew something was wrong.

I scheduled every doctor I could think of, even though I could barely think. While I waited the weeks and months for appointments, I tried to figure out ways to cope: I worked very few hours from home, clutching my hands while using speech to text software. When sitting became unbearable, I moved to the couch, and tried not to cry from the pain radiating out of my skin. I tried not to look at my violin.

Despite every torture I was experiencing, no one could find anything wrong with me. A neurologist ultimately diagnosed me with fibromyalgia, which means “pain in multiple body parts without a known cause.” Like, no shit, doc.

But the neurologist did actually believe me. He told me how he’s seen weird stuff happen that we can't explain yet. He had ruled out the things that would kill me and the best thing I could do for myself—while waiting for science to catch up to me—was eat well, sleep well, don’t drink or do drugs, and try exercising three times a week.

So I learned how to eat well, I slept 10 hours a night, never drank, and started swimming in the super slow lane at the pool, three times a week. I went to physical therapy to target problem areas, which was, y’know, my whole body. As I learned more management strategies, I was able to work more, and come back to the office part-time for as long as I could tolerate the pain. I put on a nice smile, lied through the “hi how are you”s, and went home completely drained.

Some people could see behind the mask. These were people who had offered their own stories during my desperate search for an answer. They told me about being diagnosed with Celiac disease, taking care of their parent with MS, or about the disease-carrying tick that changed the course of their life forever. Together, we mourned what our lives could have been. It helped me stop pitying myself: I was not unique. So many people in my life had hidden disabilities, and I never knew, until it was my turn to suffer.

I learned a kind of “disabled person” code. “I’m fine” means “just the usual.” “A bit tired” means “I’m pretty distracted by pain today.” “Oh, you know, hanging in there,” means “I am suffering immensely but I need money to stay alive so here I am at work again and it sucks, oh God it sucks.”

Over time I learned to accept this apparently common hell. Then, eight months after the full collapse, I had an epiphany. While I once again tried to relax my clenched jaw at work, I realized jaw pain was a listed side effect of a medication I had been taking for years. And I remembered that I had changed pharmacies right before my foot pain started, and this new pharmacy used a different manufacturer, which can affect how medications work.

Under my prescriber’s supervision, I stopped taking the medication. 2 days later, I was completely cured.

All these possibilities I had mourned came rushing back to me, all at once. I finally jumped into the folk community, started calling my violin a fiddle, played my heart out, and danced for hours and hours. And it turns out I’m a pretty good fiddler and a pretty good dancer, and all these folk people know each other, but they don’t know me— and they say, “I haven’t seen you before! Did you just move here?”

And I feel another mask slipping on. I want to tell the truth, but the truth is something like, “I was here but I was a shell of myself, a dead husk of what I could have been, but then a miracle brought me back to life and I am alive! I am free! I am here!”

But we don’t say that stuff off-stage. We say we’re great!, good, a bit tired, or we’re just hanging in there… I am so, so lucky, to be better. To be so obnoxiously healthy that no one would ever guess I was disabled like that— 6 months ago!

I can't wave this magic wand for everyone else. But I can try to be exceedingly kind to people, to help get them through whatever kind of day they’re having, whatever mask they’re wearing. And I will never take anything for granted ever again.