Yesterday, I Was Sick.
Not the kind of sick that requires emergency intervention. The kind that makes you dizzy when you stand up and ache when you lie down. The kind where your body won’t stop shaking and your brain can’t process anything beyond the next sip of water. The kind of sick that lingers just long enough to push your mental health to the edge.
As usual, my phone stayed silent. No texts. No calls. No “Are you okay?” or “Need anything?” Not even from people I consider close. And while I’ve grown accustomed to handling things on my own, something about being physically ill always rips the scab off the quiet truth I try to ignore.
I am still healing from more than just a virus. I am healing from a lifetime of being unseen.
The Emotional Cost of Healing in Silence
For many people, being sick means slowing down, resting, and maybe even receiving a little comfort. For transgender people, it can mean something very different. Getting sick becomes a mirror that reflects back every fracture in your social world.
Who do you call when no one picks up? What do you do when your own family has cut ties or when they only acknowledge you as someone you used to be? What does recovery look like when you’re the only one watching over yourself?
These aren’t dramatic hypotheticals. They’re lived experiences for countless trans individuals, especially those of us who live alone, are estranged from family, or have been socially isolated for years. Illness becomes a test of emotional endurance, not just physical strength.
When Survival Becomes Routine
I nursed myself through my illness with the routine I’ve built for survival: hydration, medicine, microwaved soup, and cuddling with my cat, who remains the only creature in my life who consistently shows up when I need comfort. Between coughs and body aches, I would pause and cry quietly, not just from pain, but from the silence.
I wanted someone to check in. Someone to care. I didn’t need someone to solve everything, but simply to be present.
There is grief in that silence. A grief that cannot be easily explained. It’s not just about being alone. It’s about feeling erased in your most vulnerable state. It’s about knowing that the world doesn’t expect you to need care, and worse, doesn’t feel responsible when you do.
Trans Estrangement and the Hidden Danger of Illness
Estrangement is a common thread in transgender narratives. For many of us, family ties were severed the moment we stepped into our truth. Others experience a slower fade, where friends and loved ones simply disappear over time, leaving us with a social circle so small that even a brief illness becomes a full-blown crisis.
And even when estrangement isn’t formal or explicit, it can be emotionally present. A family member might not disown you, but they won’t call when you’re unwell. Friends might love you in theory, but when it’s time to act, they’re nowhere to be found. This kind of social ghosting is subtle but devastating.
It teaches you not to expect help. It conditions you to minimize your needs, to keep quiet, and to recover in the dark so no one has to see you struggle.
Medical Mistrust Adds Another Layer
Many trans people delay or avoid medical care, even when we truly need it. This is not due to stubbornness or pride. It’s due to trauma.
Being misgendered in a clinic. Having your identity questioned during intake. Having doctors blame everything on hormones, or worse, dismiss your pain altogether. These experiences are not rare. They’re repeated often enough that many of us internalize a dangerous rule: only seek help when there’s no other option.
So when sickness hits, even if our condition worsens, we often stay home. We downplay symptoms. We push through. We hope it gets better on its own. Because the idea of being vulnerable in a space that might harm us is more terrifying than the fever.
This mistrust doesn’t only delay treatment. It deepens the loneliness. It reinforces the idea that you’re truly on your own and that seeking help is an act of risk rather than safety.
Post-Surgery Recovery and the Expectation of Support
For transgender people undergoing gender-affirming procedures, the emotional toll of healing alone is especially acute. Top surgery, bottom surgery, and facial procedures, these are physically demanding recoveries that ideally involve caretakers, bed rest, and consistent monitoring.
But what if no one is there? What if you wake up from surgery and your ride home is an Uber driver? What if you’re bandaging your incisions in a fog of painkillers, trying to remember the post-op instructions you were too groggy to process?
This is a reality for so many. Not because we don’t plan. Not because we don’t care for ourselves. But because our systems have failed to ensure we have the kind of social infrastructure others take for granted.
The Specific Ache of Being Uncared For
There is a kind of pain that lives beneath the surface of the fever. A silent ache that asks, “If I disappeared today, who would notice?” When you are sick and trans and alone, that question becomes a haunting loop.
It’s the feeling of eating instant noodles for dinner because it hurts too much to stand at the stove. It’s crying into your blanket while your cat watches silently. It’s watching friends post photos of brunch and beach days while you lie on the floor trying to hold down crackers.
It’s the realization that no one thought to check in. And maybe they never will.
How This Isolation Takes a Mental Toll
Being sick isn’t just about physical symptoms. For trans people with limited support, it can become a mental health crisis.
Prolonged isolation during illness can lead to:
- Increased depression and hopelessness
- Intrusive thoughts about being a burden or not worth caring for
- Re-traumatization from past abandonment or abuse
- Difficulty returning to social routines after recovery
These impacts linger long after the fever breaks. The body may heal, but the emotional bruises remain.
And when illness is chronic or recurring, those bruises turn into scars. You begin to expect nothing. You stop asking. You even stop hoping.
Building Care Into a Lonely World
There is no easy fix to this. But there are intentional steps we can take to create safety, comfort, and connection, even when support systems are small or unreliable.
- Start a sick-day plan when you’re healthy. Build a kit with essentials: over-the-counter meds, snacks, electrolyte powders, soft tissues, heat packs, affirming notes to yourself, and even a list of comfort media.
- Choose one check-in buddy. Find a friend or online community member who can agree to text if you’re under the weather. Don’t aim for a village if you don’t have one, start with one trusted person.
- Schedule regular community check-ins. If you’re part of an online group or Discord, ask if someone would be open to a wellness check thread or signal system for sick days.
- Let go of guilt about needing help. You are not weak for needing care. You are not dramatic for wanting to be seen. This is basic humanity. You deserve it.
- If you’re an ally, don’t wait for an invite. Reach out. Ask your trans loved one how they’re feeling. Offer to drop off groceries or check in with a text. Even a simple emoji can be a lifeline on a hard day.
What I Want You to Know
I’m feeling better today. The fever is gone, the headaches have faded, and I am finally able to shower without needing to sit down afterward. My cat is still by my side, sleeping on the couch like she saved my life, which, in her own way, she did.
But the quiet stayed with me. The silence of an untouched phone. The invisible thread of grief that wove itself into every moment of weakness. I’m writing this now because I don’t want to carry that alone anymore. And I don’t want you to, either.
If you’ve ever been sick and felt invisible, I see you. If you’ve ever cried in the dark and wondered why no one cared, I hear you. If you’re reading this while sick right now, I promise you this: you matter. Your pain is real. Your healing is worthy of witnesses.
And if your phone is silent, know that mine was too. Until now.
The Bottom Line
Being sick and trans should not have to mean suffering in silence. Yet for too many of us, it does. The systems built to care for people often forget we exist. The people who once said they loved us vanish. Even the medical world, with all its science and structure, can make us feel like we’re intruding just by walking through the door.
But the truth is simple. You deserve care. You deserve tenderness. You deserve to be checked on when you’re not well.
If the world isn’t offering that yet, we will build it ourselves. One article. One text. One tiny care package at a time.
Because we are still here. Still healing. Still holding space for each other in the quiet.
