I am 27. You cannot really see it, but I live with fibromyalgia.
It is one of those conditions that hides in plain sight. Some days I feel almost fine, other days my body feels heavy and unreliable. Pain and fatigue are always there in the background, quietly deciding how much I can do. Standing for long periods is one of the hardest things. My legs start to ache, my energy drains fast, and my body slowly switches into survival mode.

Public transport in London is where this becomes very real. It is always busy. Platforms full, trains packed, people moving fast and keeping to themselves. London can feel anonymous in that way. Everyone is focused on getting from A to B, and there is little room for conversation with strangers. From the outside, I look like anyone else commuting through the city. No visible aids, no obvious signs that something is wrong. That anonymity makes it harder to speak up when my body needs something.

Learning when to speak up

Asking for a seat has never come naturally to me. There is always hesitation. I do not want to interrupt someone’s day or feel like I need to justify myself. Fibromyalgia is not something you can explain in one sentence, especially not to a stranger during a busy commute. So for a long time, I simply did not ask. I stood there, focusing on staying upright and counting the stops.

Now I carry an International Disability Card with me. I rarely take it out. Most days it stays quietly in my wallet, untouched. But knowing it is there has changed the way I move through the world. It gives me a sense of permission. Permission to listen to my body and to take my own limits seriously.

There was a moment on a crowded train that really stayed with me. No seats, barely any space, and my legs were already starting to shake. Instead of pushing through like I usually do, I took out the card and showed it to someone sitting nearby. I did not explain anything. I did not have to. They looked at it, nodded, and stood up so I could sit down.