I was fine. Or, as fine as I could be living with daily chronic pain and neurodivergence, both of which were largely misunderstood by an ableist world. Still, I managed to write and publish, to navigate MFA and PhD programs and achieve tenure teaching creative writing. It was difficult and painful, but mostly because my body and brain were not visible in these efforts, disability mentioned nowhere in the syllabus or writing workshop. And because disability was not visible around me, I cleverly concealed my own invisible illness a way of moving unseen through the world, pain only aware to the sufferer.
For many years I worked this way, attempting to dutifully follow writing advice I received in workshops. For many years I ached each time I wrote, but I convinced myself this was because I was not trying hard enough. I became accustomed to working harder through