Illness has a way of shining a light on the people around you. Sometimes that light reveals deep compassion, other times it exposes the limits of empathy—or, in my case, the complicated ways people seek attention for themselves. When I was diagnosed with a chronic autoimmune disease last year, I expected support, understanding, and maybe a few awkward conversations. What I didn’t expect was for my partner, Mark, to use my struggle as a way to garner sympathy from others.
At first, I was grateful for Mark’s help. He drove me to appointments, picked up my medication, and handled things when I didn’t have the energy. But it didn’t take long before I noticed a shift. My illness became a story he shared freely with friends, coworkers, and even acquaintances at parties. Only the story he told wasn’t about me. It was about how he was coping, how he was “suffering alongside me,” how hard it was for him to see me in pain.
The Spotlight Shifts
It started with social media posts—long captions describing my latest flare-up, but always ending with, “It’s tough, but I’m staying strong for her.” His friends would flood the comments: “You’re so brave, Mark!” “I don’t know how you do it!” “Sending strength to you!”
At dinners, he’d bring up my health before I’d even had a chance to sit down. “It’s been rough lately, but we’re hanging in there,” he’d sigh, squeezing my hand for effect. The table’s attention would turn to him, concern painted on their faces. I sat, silent, like a side note to my own story.
I wanted to believe it was just his awkward way of showing support, but the pattern became impossible to ignore. My pain had become his platform.
When Empathy Becomes Appropriation
The turning point came after a particularly hard week. Mark organized a gathering for friends, saying he wanted me to feel “supported.” But all night, he held court, detailing my symptoms and struggles—sometimes embellishing, sometimes getting facts wrong—while I watched from across the room. People hugged him, not me. “Hang in there, Mark. You’re amazing.” I felt invisible and exposed all at once.
After everyone left, I confronted him. “Why do you always make this about you?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.
Mark looked wounded. “I’m just trying to help. People care about how I’m doing, too. It’s hard for me to watch you suffer.”
I understood that. Illness is hard on loved ones. But I needed support, not a spokesperson. I needed empathy, not appropriation.
Claiming My Story
I realized that my story belonged to me—even the hard, messy parts. I had to set boundaries, asking Mark not to share details about my health without my consent, not to turn my pain into his plotline.
The conversations were uncomfortable. Mark was defensive at first, but eventually, he listened. He hadn’t realized how much his “support” hurt. Over time, he learned to check in with me before posting, to let me share my updates in my own words, and to focus on being present, not performative.
What I Learned
It’s easy for illness to become public property—something people discuss, pity, or use to paint themselves as heroes. But your story is yours. I learned that it’s okay to set limits on what’s shared, to ask for real support, and to expect the spotlight to stay where it belongs.
If you’re dealing with something hard and someone else is using your pain for their sympathy, you have every right to reclaim your narrative.
Final Thought
If your illness—or any struggle—becomes someone else’s platform, remember: your experience is valid, and so are your boundaries. Speak up, ask for what you need, and trust that the people who truly care will let you lead your own story.
