Strong, Sick, and Still Overlooked

This post, inspired by Episode 14 of my podcast, delves into personal experiences that have led to reflections on roles within relationships and the persistent concept of equality. These musings originated from simple, everyday moments, revealing patterns rather than isolated incidents in relationships. Listen to this episode here.

A few weeks ago, while having dinner with close friends, there was a casually mentioned event they’d had a few weeks earlier.

There was a brief internal pause. Not anger, not even real hurt, just a quiet oh.

I wanted to show up, I wanted to celebrate them, and suddenly I realized I hadn’t been included in a way that mattered to me.

I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t about me, and given the circumstances of their lives at the time, it would have felt distasteful to center my feelings, but the moment lingered, not because of the event itself but because it felt familiar.

When it’s not an isolated moment, but a pattern

As I sat with it, I realized this wasn’t about one dinner conversation or one missed invitation. It was about a broader pattern I’ve experienced in many relationships: imbalance.

I tend to give more emotionally, relationally, and attentively. I notice changes in people, I check in when something feels off, I follow up after hard things, even months later. I celebrate people’s wins out loud, supporting others feels natural to me, and I do it intentionally. Often, it isn’t reciprocated, not because people are cruel or selfish but because emotional labor is unevenly distributed, and some people simply aren’t practiced in it.

The therapist lens: when competence gets mistaken for independence

As a therapist, I’m deeply attuned to emotions, loss, and relational dynamics. I understand how much it matters to feel seen and supported, especially when things are hard and there’s no easy fix. But emotional competence has a downside; when you’re regulated, insightful, and articulate, people often assume you’re self-sufficient. Your ability to hold space gets mistaken for not needing it, your insight gets mistaken for independence, and helpers become containers by default. When you’re good at holding space for others, people forget you need it too.

Grief makes this painfully clear

This became especially obvious to me this past year when I lost a family member and had to put my dog down within 48 hours of each other. It was one of the hardest stretches I’ve lived through.

I told people, not everyone, just those who knew me, my dog, and that relationship, and while I understand how awkward grief can feel for others, I was still struck by how quiet it became.

Outside of my best friend and, unexpectedly, one of my clients, very few people checked in, and I know exactly why. Grief is uncomfortable, it’s unfixable, and people don’t want to say the wrong thing, so they say nothing at all. Silence can feel safer than imperfection, I understand this and still, it hurts.

The chronic illness layer: when suffering has no timeline

Now add chronic illness to the mix, when someone has a situational illness like a surgery, an accident, a hospitalization, support pours in; flowers, meals, texts, visits, there’s a clear beginning and an expected end. Chronic illness doesn’t work that way. When you don’t feel well most days, people stop checking in. This is not because they don’t care, but because nothing is “new", our baseline suffering becomes invisible background noise. One of the hardest things to hear, even now, is: “You haven’t been feeling well for years.” It’s often meant empathetically, but the message underneath is, I can’t tell when it’s worse, and when your baseline is already lower than everyone else’s, those dips matter. They’re real, but they’re rarely noticed. Consistency gets mistaken for coping.

When it all collides

When you’re chronically ill, you need support, and when you’re emotionally capable, you look like you don’t. Together, those realities can make you disappear. I’m sick, I’m capable, and I’m still often expected to carry the room. This shows up in friendships, family systems, and professional relationships, and for women, who are already socialized to be caretakers, it compounds even further.

It’s a recipe for quiet loneliness.

This isn’t about blame

I want to be clear: this isn’t about calling people out or assigning fault. Most people care deeply, many just don’t know how to show up when they can’t fix something. Avoidance often comes from helplessness, not indifference, but silence still communicates something even when it’s unintentional.

For those who relate

If you’re chronically ill and feel forgotten: you’re not imagining it. Long-term suffering doesn’t fit into how most people understand support. It makes sense if you feel lonely, and it’s not wrong to wish people checked in more.

If you’re a therapist or emotionally skilled helper, you don’t owe everyone access to your inner life. Being strong doesn’t require being silent, and care doesn’t have to be perfectly reciprocal, but it shouldn’t always be one-sided.

If you’re someone who cares but feels unsure how to show up: checking in isn’t intrusive, and you don’t need a milestone or the right words. Presence matters more than perfection; a simple “I’m thinking of you today” can mean more than you realize.

Have you ever been the strong one who didn’t get checked on? If this resonated, drop a 💛in the comments.