The Fight: Living with a Disability and the Strength It Takes

From the outside, I often look fine. Capable. Smiling, even. But what people don’t always see is the fight, the relentless, exhausting fight that comes with living with an invisible medical condition.

This isn’t just my story. It’s the story of so many people who live in bodies that don’t cooperate, with symptoms we can’t always explain, and energy we can’t always summon. It’s the story of advocating for ourselves in a world that often doesn’t believe us, unless it can see our struggle.

When the World Doesn’t Believe You

I’ve been fighting my entire life. Fighting to be seen. Fighting to be heard. Fighting to be believed.

When I was first diagnosed, my condition was barely recognised. I was dismissed, told it was just anxiety, teenage hormones, or growing pains. I was told I was exaggerating, lazy, and stressed. Those words, those moments of invalidation, should never have happened. They shaped the way I moved forward in life. They impacted my mental health, my trust in professionals, and most of all, my ability to advocate for myself.

 And yet, I kept going. Appointment after appointment. Eventually, a specialist listened and gave me some answers, some hope. But the fight didn’t stop. I still had to explain my condition to every new doctor, nurse, or emergency room I visited. The emotional toll is invisible too.

The Everyday Fight

 The fight extends beyond medical appointments. It’s the fight to get out of bed when my body feels broken. To push through work. To manage finances. To keep up with life when my condition is weighing me down.

It’s cancelling plans, again, and losing friends who don’t understand. It’s having to explain, over and over, to people who don’t get it. It’s the guilt. The grief of the life you used to have, or hoped you’d have.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am fortunate. I have some incredible people in my life. A loving husband. Friends and family who care deeply. Professionals who advocate and support. But even with all that, it’s still hard. It’s still a fight.

Enter My Service Dog: Not a Cure, But a Lifeline

 And then came my service dog, Buttons. This incredible companion changed everything, not just as a medical tool, but as a constant, nonjudgmental, loyal friend. She doesn’t ask me to explain myself. She just helps. She gives me my independence back. She helps with tasks that drain my energy and makes hard days more manageable.

She is not a cure. She doesn’t take away my condition. But she gives me the strength and capacity to get through the day. And that is life-changing.

Another Fight: The Fight for Access

But here’s the part that breaks my heart, having a service dog becomes another fight. A fight that should not exist, just like having to fight for your self.

To live with a disability is to be asked to prove yourself constantly. And now, I have to prove that my medical support, my service dog, is legitimate. That she belongs by my side.

Access denial is one of the most painful parts of this journey.

It’s being told you can’t enter a restaurant with your medical support. It’s being asked to leave a taxi or being questioned every time you enter a store. It’s being refused on public transport. And that denial cuts deep. It tells you your needs don’t matter. It takes your support away, in public, and forces you to explain your existence, yet again.

A Personal Experience with Access Denial

 Recently, I was denied access to public transport while travelling to attend a family bereavement. It was already an emotional and stressful time. Being told I couldn’t travel with my service dog, my medical aid, was devastating. I had no choice but to leave her behind.For two weeks, I was without her.

And yes, I had support. My husband was incredible. My family and friends surrounded me with love and care. But they aren’t my service dog. They’re not the medical assistance that enables me to function. They’re not the one who helps me get out of bed, stay safe, and make it through the day with some independence and peace.

The emotional and physical toll of being without her was overwhelming. I had to ask for help in ways I hadn’t needed to in years. I lost independence I had fought so hard to gain. I experienced more injuries. I needed more rest. And I felt like I was losing pieces of myself at a time when I was already emotionally exhausted.

This is the reality of access denial. It doesn’t just disrupt your day. It disrupts your life, its doesn’t happen every day, or every week, but it does happen

We Shouldn’t Have to Fight Alone 

I’m not saying the fight will disappear. I’m not saying I can take the fight away from you. But what I’ve learned is this, every time we fight, whether we win or lose, we make a difference. We lay the groundwork for the next step forward. We pave the way for someone else to have a slightly easier path.

And we don’t have to do it alone. Whether your access is denied because of a service dog, a mobility device, your communication style, your medical needs, it’s not okay. But it can change. And together, we change it.

This Fight is Bigger Than Us

Every person who is denied access because they use a wheelchair and there’s no ramp.

 Every person who is dismissed because they can’t speak, or can’t hear, or can’t see.

 Every person whose invisible condition is treated like it doesn’t exist.

 This is our shared fight. And when we show up for each other, when we make even small changes, we start to move the mountain. The fight you fought today, the one that knocked you down, might be the very reason someone else stands taller tomorrow.

You Are Not Alone

At Pawsabilities Service Dog Society, and Woofability Service Dog Training, we’re here for you. We’re here to fight beside you. To listen. To support. To make change happen.

You are not weak. You are not dramatic. You are not alone.

We fight because we have to, but also because we can, and to make it so in the future others may not need to. Human rights should not have to be a fight, they are there as a protection, and that’s how they should be used and advocated for, in advocacy and education we can make a difference.

April Sauvé CPDT-KA, CDBC, SDT, ADT, CFFP