You Don’t See It, But It’s There: The Hidden Battle of PNES

I wish people understood.

I wish they could see what I see. Not with their eyes, but with compassion. My husband, Tim, lives with a hidden disability. It doesn’t announce itself with crutches, a wheelchair, or a visible scar. From the outside, he might look like everyone else. He walks, talks, smiles politely. To strangers, he’s “fine.” But what they don’t see is the war inside his body and mind—a war called PNES, or Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures.

People don’t understand that disabilities aren’t always visible. Tim’s condition is neurological, psychological, emotional—all wrapped into one cruel package that doesn’t show itself until it takes over his body without warning. He can be calm one moment, then suddenly trapped in a seizure brought on by stress or trauma. There’s no flashing red light. No dramatic lead-up. Just a switch flipping. And it’s terrifying.

The hardest part is watching him try to mask it. He works so hard to “act normal” in public. To not let others see the exhaustion in his eyes or the fear in his shoulders. He doesn’t want pity. He wants understanding. He wants people to stop judging what they think they see.

When he cancels plans, he’s not being flaky.
When he needs to rest, he’s not lazy.
When he stares off, quiet and withdrawn, he’s not rude.
He’s surviving.

I see the emotional toll. I see how much energy it takes him just to get through a simple day. And when people make assumptions—“He looks fine to me,” or “Maybe he just needs to push himself more”—it cuts deeper than they know. Because if they really knew the storm going on inside him, they’d think twice before judging.

Hidden disabilities are real. They deserve the same compassion and accommodation as any visible condition. Tim doesn’t wear a sign, but that doesn’t make his struggle less valid. It just makes it lonelier.

So the next time someone seems “off,” give grace.
The next time someone says they’re struggling—believe them.
And please, remember: not all pain can be seen.

Tim is fighting every day. Quietly. Bravely. Invisibly.
And that deserves to be honored, not dismissed.