Even with a diagnosis, it can be hard to know when our pain is “enough” to name, especially when it’s invisible or fluctuating. For most of my life, I measured pain the way I thought I was supposed to: silently, stoically, and without complaint. I’ve winced behind closed doors, breathed through sharp pangs in public, and told loved ones, “It’s not that bad,” even when it was. Not to deceive them, but to protect them. Somewhere along the way, I learned that if I was still standing, I must be fine.