I’ve spent 10 years of my life thinking my pain wasn’t enough to justify giving it a label. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia at 16 years old — a disease mostly characterized by chronic pain at the joints and tenderness in specific pressure points — and yet, the diagnosis never felt like enough. Even now at 26, it doesn’t feel like a “good enough excuse,” it doesn’t sound real. Back when I was in high school, I could barely go up stairs or hold my pen. I felt like my teachers didn’t believe me. I didn’t look sick. I was too young to have chronic pain. I was being dramatic. My flare-ups were always convenient. I just hadn’t tried hard enough. Others suffered more, after all. I thought after receiving a diagnosis — an uphill battle of its own — would fix it all. But nothing changed. I couldn’t consider myself disabled because my teachers’ words echoed in my brain. So much so, I confused them with my own thoughts. What I wanted, what I desperately needed, were people willing to help me fight against those thoughts, to build a system around me that encouraged, loved, and accepted me with compassion, instead of invalidating me.