Standing When You Should Be Sitting

Public transport used to be ordinary.

You get on. You find a seat or you stand. You travel from one place to another without thinking too much about your body or the people around you.

Multiple sclerosis has changed that completely.

Public transport is no longer just about getting somewhere. It is about managing risk, energy, and perception all at once.

The first challenge is physical.

Balance is not something I can take for granted. Sudden stops, crowded spaces, and the constant movement of buses or trains make standing difficult. Holding onto a pole while the vehicle shifts beneath you requires strength and stability that is not always there.

Priority seats exist for a reason.

They are designed for people who need them. People with mobility issues, chronic illness, or conditions that make standing unsafe. On paper, the system makes sense.

In reality, it relies on something far less reliable.

Other people.

There are days when I stand in front of a priority seat and no one looks up. Heads stay down. Eyes remain fixed on phones. The unspoken rule of avoidance takes over. If no one acknowledges you, no one has to offer.

There are days when someone does look up.

That moment can feel worse.

Their eyes move over you quickly, searching. They look for visible signs of disability. A cast. A wheelchair. Something obvious that justifies your presence in that space.

When they do not find it, the expression changes.

Doubt.

It is not always spoken, but it is clear. The question sits there: do you really need this?

Invisible illness creates a constant need for silent justification.

I am young. I can stand. I do not look unwell. None of these things reflect what is actually happening inside my body. Fatigue does not show on my face. My legs may feel unstable, heavy, or unreliable, but that instability is not visible to anyone else.

Standing for too long can have consequences.

Pain builds. Balance becomes harder to maintain. The risk of falling increases. The cost does not end when the journey ends. It carries forward into the rest of the day.

Public transport turns those private realities into public situations.

Asking for a seat requires courage.

It means speaking up in a space where people expect visible evidence. It means risking judgment. It means exposing something that is usually hidden.

There are moments when I have chosen not to ask.

Moments when the fear of being questioned felt heavier than the physical discomfort of standing. Moments when I stayed silent, held onto a rail, and counted the stops until I could get off.

Silence comes at a cost.

The body absorbs it. Fatigue deepens. Recovery takes longer. The journey does not end when I step off the bus or train. It follows me home.

There are also moments of kindness.

Someone notices. Someone offers a seat without hesitation. Someone understands that disability does not always look the way they expect.

Those moments matter.

They restore something that public transport often takes away: a sense of being seen without needing to prove anything.

The stares, however, remain part of the experience.

They come from people trying to understand, trying to assess, trying to decide whether you belong in that space. They are not always malicious. They are shaped by a limited understanding of what disability looks like.

That does not make them easier to carry.

Living with a hidden disability means existing in a constant negotiation between need and perception. Public transport brings that negotiation into sharp focus.

Every journey becomes a decision.

Stand and risk the consequences.

Ask and risk the judgment.

Sit and feel the weight of being watched.

None of these options are simple.

Navigating public transport with a disability is not just about movement. It is about visibility. It is about access. It is about the quiet tension between what your body needs and what the world believes.

Priority seats exist.

Understanding does not always follow.

I am not taking something I do not need.

I am using something that was designed for people like me.

Even if no one else can see why.