Don’t Tell Me I’m “Too Sensitive.” You’re Just Too Cruel.
It happened in front of a Starbucks. Like so many little violences do. I was inching my car into a disabled bay, my legs trembling, fatigue coiled behind my eyes like a migraine ready to strike, when a woman dripping in costume jewellery appeared. Finger raised. Voice already sharp with judgment.
“You can’t park there.”
I told her I could. That I had a permit and that I have multiple sclerosis.
She scoffed. “Those things are fake. You can buy them anywhere.”
“Really?” I thought to myself, “Where?” Probably would’ve been easier.
Then she looked me in the face and said: “Multiple Sclerosis doesn’t count.”
Let me repeat that. Multiple Sclerosis doesn’t **ing count.
Well, clearly I need to have a little chat with my world-class neurologist. Obviously, this woman knew something he didn’t.
I wish I had a clever comeback. Something surgical and savage that would’ve left her sizzling in a puddle of her own ignorance.
But I didn’t.
I just stood there, vibrating with rage, with shame of her making a scene in public, of her filming me on her phone, with that old, sick feeling in my gut: Here we go again.
My nervous system wasn’t built for public debate. And yet, here I was. My body on trial in the middle of town. I just wanted a coffee and to sit down because getting out in the world is an ENORMOUS treat for me these days.
The Price of Looking “Fine”
When I was first diagnosed, the man I was dating didn’t believe me.
“You’re not actually sick,” he said. “You look fine.”
As if illness only counts if it disfigures you. As if I must drag a wound behind me like a Victorian ghost to be believed.
He cheated on me with two of my friends and later dated a woman with a more obvious illness. I did start to question if he had some kind of bizarre fetish or if he just needed to feel more masculine by having a damsel in distress on his flabby arm. Who knows, people are weird. Once, with godlike certainty, he said: “Maybe you just don’t get to have love.”
I didn’t believe him; I’m not that messed up. But that’s what the world teaches you when your illness hides under your skin. That, unless your pain is public, photogenic, and can make people tilt their heads with an “oh, you poor thing” look, it doesn’t count.
That your nervous system, your actual lived experience, is somehow up for peer review.
Welcome to the Performance of “Okay”
Women are taught from the beginning to make pain look pretty. Smiling through cramps. Working through grief. Performing resilience like it’s an effing TED Talk.
Throw chronic illness into the mix, and you’re cast in a very specific role:
Be brave, but not bitter.
Be strong, but not messy.
Be informative, but not angry.
Be disabled, but not inconvenient.
God forbid you feel things. God forbid your body doesn’t cooperate.
The Ableism Hidden in Wellness Culture
Let’s talk about the billion-dollar lie that says you can “heal yourself” if you try hard enough.
Green juice.
Yoga.
Mindset.
Detoxes.
Energy work.
The whole “optimise your nervous system” cult that pretends trauma and illness are just bad habits you haven’t outgrown yet.
I’m not knocking genuine care or ritual or pleasure; I love a magnesium bath as much as the next exhausted woman. But I am calling out the violence that happens when the wellness world gaslights the sick. When it blames you for your symptoms. When it markets recovery as a brand you can buy if you hustle hard enough and stop being “negative.”
Sometimes a body is just broken. Sometimes it’s just tired. Sometimes it’s never going to be better, and that doesn’t mean you failed. It means the system did.
I Don’t Owe You My Pain Performance
I don’t owe you visible suffering. I don’t owe you explanations. I don’t owe you a limp, a wheelchair, a medical file, or a teary TEDx talk.
I have MS. It’s real. And whether I’m collapsed in bed or laughing at a party or, God forbid, standing tall in a disabled parking space, I’m still sick. I’m still fighting. And I’m still not here to make you comfortable.
Stop asking women to shrink their pain into something you can digest.
Stop calling us “too sensitive” when what you mean is, “I don’t want to feel implicated in your reality.”
My nervous system is not a fucking debate club. It’s not up for peer review. It’s mine. It’s sacred. And sometimes it hurts like hell.
And Still, I Rise. Not to Inspire You. To Save Myself.
The best part? That ex who told me I didn’t get to have love? He was wrong. So wrong it’s almost funny. I found someone who didn’t need proof to believe me. Who didn’t treat my illness like an inconvenience or a prop. Who holds space when my legs fail and holds my hand when they don’t.
What About You?
Have you ever been asked to prove your pain? Have you swallowed your symptoms to make others more comfortable? What would it feel like to stop performing and just… be?
You don’t owe anyone your broken parts. But if you feel like sharing, I’m listening.
I’ll be sitting at my laptop, working, writing, answering emails, maybe just thinking about writing while actually scrolling through memes, and then poof… I disappear.
Not slowly, like that cosy afternoon nap you give yourself permission for. I mean one second I’m here, and the next, gone. Like someone unplugged my brain. Then just as quickly, I jolt back. Blink. It’s over. The dog’s still asleep. The kettle’s still humming. But I’m sitting upright at my computer, wondering: Did I just fall asleep while working? And it happens more than once; these strange glitches come in clusters. I can be pulled out of them if the phone rings or if someone touches me, like my nervous system is waiting for a jumpstart.
I’ve had a few of these episodes now. They’re not dreamy or floaty or warm. They’re hard and fast and jarring. And they scare the shit out of me.
When you live with MS, every weird body glitch carries a question mark. Is this just MS doing its daily chaos routine? Or is this something new? I am always scared of something new because in my support group, my fellow spoonies will say, “It’s never just one disease,” or “Once you’ve got one, you’ll get more.”
Please, no.
MRI (Eventually) Incoming
I haven’t actually made the appointment yet. I know I need to. But I’m still in the bureaucratic limbo of:
A. Figuring out whether my medical aid will cover it (spoiler: only a portion, yay South African healthcare).
B. …I forgot what B was. I genuinely had it a minute ago.
Anyway. MRI, neurologist, those are on the horizon. Somewhere between the load shedding schedule and the next cup of tea.
And I’ll admit it: I’m nervous. Not because I expect a terrifying result. I’ve already got a brain with white spots and a spine full of screws and wires. But I need answers. And the options on the table are… not exactly comforting.
Here’s the shortlist:
MS fatigue, aka “lassitude,” which is a fancy word for soul-sucking exhaustion that hits like a tranquillizer dart. It’s not “you need a nap” tired. It’s “my brain is melting” tired. I don’t know how to explain it to people who have never experienced it. Closest is, imagine you’ve been awake for 142 hours and your veins are full of cement.
Microsleeps, which are tiny, sneaky, involuntary naps that last mere seconds but could happen while I’m sitting, reading, or, terrifyingly, driving.
Narcolepsy, which I don’t think it is, but hey, add it to the menu of potential plot twists.
Or, worst case, seizures, though mine don’t come with confusion or post-episode fog, so that seems less likely. Still, it’s on the board.
What’s the difference, anyway?
I did some digging because I’m me, and medical rabbit holes are my weird comfort activity. Here’s the deal:
MS Fatigue: Creeps in slowly, can last days, weeks, months (yup), worsens with heat or thinking or breathing. It’s not fixed with sleep; you just have to wave a white flag and collapse.
Microsleeps: Happen instantly and briefly. You might not even realize it’s happening. They often show up when you’re bored, tired, or doing something repetitive. Like, say… staring at a screen trying to earn a living.
Sleep attacks: Similar to narcolepsy, these come on fast and can make you collapse mid-sentence. (Not happening here, thank god.)
Seizures: Usually longer, often come with confusion or memory gaps. (Not me. I come back online almost too fast.)
So what’s happening with me? I don’t know yet. But I do know this: it’s unsettling. So much so that Bugsy seems to pick up on it and he lies next to me quietly till I’m back before carrying on with his 18th zoomie of the day.
The Mental Load of Not Knowing
This is the part they don’t tell you when you’re diagnosed. Not just the disease, but the never-ending detective work. The constant second-guessing. The mental calculus of “Should I worry about this now or later? Or never?”
It’s exhausting. And honestly? Sometimes it’s lonelier than the actual symptoms.
But I’m trying to do the responsible thing. See the doctor. Get the scan. Ask the questions. Start taking rest breaks (who has time for this?) and hydrate (not so easy when your throat muscles are experiencing spasticity).
Things I need to do:
Rest with intention: Schedule quiet breaks, not just flopping on the couch. Phone off, eyes closed, even if it’s just 10 minutes.
Temperature matters: I keep a fan close by. Heat makes it worse.
Bedtime boundaries: I HAVE to get stricter about bedtime; even though I want to binge British murder shows till 2 a.m., I simply can’t. A good night’s rest is imperative.
Talk to my doctor: Not Google. Not Facebook. Not an Ai medical app. Get actual help.
I’ll update you if/when the MRI happens. I’m claustrophobic and terrified of going in that damn thing. Maybe there’ll be news. Maybe it’ll be “just fatigue.” Maybe I’ll get a fancy new Latin diagnosis to add to my collection. Who knows?
In the meantime, I’m still here. Still working. Still trying. Still curious.
Once upon a time, I was a Nice Person. I’d smile politely while someone explained my own diagnosis to me. I’d hold the door open for strangers and wait while they slowly shuffled through, unbothered. I’d listen to that one friend monologue about her sugar detox while I silently wondered if I could fake my own death to get out of the conversation.
But that version of me is gone. She perished somewhere between the fifth unsolicited wellness tip and the third time someone said, “But you don’t look sick.”
And in her place? A delightfully irritable, short-fused, boundary-setting badass who no longer has time for bullshit, big or small. This is my official Villain Era™, and it’s sponsored by chronic illness, menopause, and a bottomless vat of nope.
So, without further ado, here’s a lovingly curated list of Things I No Longer Have Patience For:
1. Loud Chewers & Public Speakerphone Users
If your jaw sounds like gravel in a washing machine, or you’re broadcasting your break-up on speakerphone in public — congratulations, you’re the reason I believe in selective extinction.
2. The Door You Left Open
Did you not feel that icy blast? Is your soul so shrivelled you think we enjoy sudden indoor tornadoes? Close the damn door before I throw a salt lamp at you.
3. Unsolicited Advice from Non-Experts
Unless you’ve lived in this meat-suit and have a PhD in neurology, keep your spirulina suppository and moon-water testimonials to yourself. I’m not your pet project. I’m just trying to buy avocados in peace. Keep your seaweed smoothie cure to yourself. And no, Susan, yoga will not reverse brain lesions.
4. The Phrase “You Don’t Look Sick”
Well, you do look stupid, so I guess we’re even.
5. The Cult of Beige Instagram Moms
If your child has a capsule wardrobe and your playroom has mood lighting, I assume your soul has been traded for engagement. Let those kids wear Crocs and chaos like the rest of us.
6. “Everything Happens for a Reason”
Unless that reason is “you’re a carbon-based life form on a rapidly decaying planet,” keep it to yourself. Some things are just… shitty.
7. People Sitting Next to Me When There Are 100 Other Empty Seats
This isn’t a hostage situation; you have options. And yet you chose my airspace? I didn’t survive a pandemic just to share elbow room with your tuna wrap. Why. Just why. Are you okay? Blink twice if you’re in distress.
8. Trad Wives Cosplaying the 1950s (Badly)
You want to obey your husband and churn butter on camera? Go wild. But don’t pretend your ring-light lifestyle is actual tradition. Real trad wives didn’t have OnlyFans. (me-owe!)
9. Chronic Illness Gatekeepers
If you’ve ever said “just be positive” to someone in pain, I hope you step on a Lego every Monday morning for the remainder of your time here.
10. Mainsplainers & Creepy Flirters
I used to nod. Now I say “That’s creepy AF dude” and walk away while maintaining eye contact.
11. People Who Know Me Better Than I Do
Newsflash: I’ve been in this body a while. I don’t need you to explain my symptoms, my limits, or my mood swings. Especially not during peri-fucking-menopause.
12. Covid Opinions
Still? We’re still doing this? Pass.
13. Thieves of Parking Spaces
That space was mine. I will trap you in. I will go Fried Green Tomatoes on your bumper. Do not test the rage of a middle-aged woman with perimenopause and pain.
I don’t know if this list makes me petty, evolved, or simply tired, but it feels delicious to get it out. There’s a joy in drawing the line. In saying “no thanks” without apologising. In laughing at how little crap I’m willing to take these days.
And maybe that’s what real healing looks like.
Your turn: what’s something you no longer have patience for? Drop it in the comments. Let’s be gloriously petty together.
Art, history, and community are on the chopping block.
The Rust-en-Vrede Gallery in Durbanville is under threat—and it’s not going down without a fight.
First, the bad news
After 40+ years as a safe haven for artists, students, and clay-splattered dreamers, the Rust-en-Vrede Gallery and Clay Museum has been told: pay commercial rent or pack up.
The City of Cape Town, current owner of the heritage site, has terminated its service-level agreement with the gallery, withdrawing financial support and shifting toward a rental model. In plain speak, they want a non-profit cultural space to start footing bills like it’s a boutique hotel.
If they can’t afford the rent, they lose the building.
If they lose the building, we all lose.
The community fights back
The gallery has launched a Change.org petition to appeal to the City and rally public support. It’s not just artists signing, it’s grandparents, teachers, students, and historians. Anyone who’s walked through those cool white walls and felt something old and sacred stir beneath the layers of paint and glaze.
“This is not just a building,” says the gallery in the TygerBurger article. “It’s a space where creativity, heritage, and community intersect.”
And they’re right. You don’t bulldoze a heartbeat.
What makes Rust-en-Vrede irreplaceable?
Let’s talk legacy:
Built in the 1840s, it served as a jail, courthouse, and police HQ before becoming a National Monument in 1984.
In 1981, it was rescued by the Durbanville Cultural Society, who transformed it into the sanctuary we know today.
It houses three professional exhibition spaces, the only dedicated Clay Museum in the country, an artist-run Cube Gallery, and multiple working studios and classrooms.
It has hosted thousands of local and international artists, including the winners of the South African Portrait Award, which it founded in 2013.
It is open to the public, inclusive, and education-driven, regularly offering school tours, workshops, and community classes.
And it does all this as a non-profit, largely volunteer-driven.
The City didn’t make this place thrive. The people did.
Follow the money
According to TygerBurger, the City argues that “policy has changed” and the lease must now reflect current “norms.” But this policy shift places a one-size-fits-all rental expectation onto a historic, cultural space whose purpose was never commercial.
The gallery has asked to remain under a service-level agreement, or for the building to be transferred to the community trust that’s maintained it since the ‘80s.
So far? No answer.
This isn’t just a gallery. It’s a story.
I don’t know about you, but I’d rather see this space protected than watch another strip mall bloom on the bones of something beautiful.
Art is not a luxury. Neither is memory. Art is a necessity.
We live in a time where stories are disappearing, swallowed up by algorithms, fast food franchises, and short-term thinking. Rust-en-Vrede tells a slow story. A deep one. One where kids learn to paint, retired nurses discover sculpture, and young artists hang their first work on an actual wall instead of just posting it online.
It would be easier if this were just a sad little gallery in a forgotten part of town. But it’s not. It’s alive. Still. Barely. And whether it stays that way depends on what we do now.
You don’t get many second chances with places like this.
Life lately? Bit of a circus, honestly. The kind where you’re both the juggler and the flaming hoops. I’ve been playing defence (is that the right phrase? I’m South African, so I dunno, insert a rugby version here). Point is, it’s been A Lot™.
Work has slowed down to a crawl. Thank you, AI overlords. Thank you, Canva. Thank you, Wix. Apparently, if you can drag and drop a rectangle onto a screen, you no longer need two decades of actual design experience. I’m thrilled.
And here’s the thing: I’ve hit that midlife shift, the one no one warns you about, where you just stop caring about being impressive or polished or “professional.” I’m tired of being the safe, dependable designer who always colours inside the lines (and yes, I’m still good at it and will obviously continue to do it, but something in me is itching for more). I want to smash some rules. I want to do some design that bites. I want to make something so bold it makes a marketing exec spill their Triple-Foamed Almond-Oat-Cashew-Matcha-Chai-Latte™ or whatever the latest Plant-Based Personality Beverage™ is trending right now. I want to shred the PowerPoint and play the guitar solo that ends with me setting the stage on fire.
Physically, I’m okay if “okay” means cocooned under 6 blankets, trying to weigh up the pros and cons of getting up to pee. The bathroom is approximately the temperature of Neptune. I am seriously contemplating whether a SheWee is a worthwhile winter investment. If anyone wants to sponsor one, I’ll write a full review, just saying.
In other news, Bugsy recently found and swallowed what can only be described as a decomposing pelt from the Upside Down Pet Buffet. I couldn’t stop him, because, well, MS. Now he’s groaning and on kibble lockdown. He’ll do it again. We both know it.
Other recent obsessions include: – Nutritional yeast (I don’t even know who I am anymore, but this stuff is gooooood). – Cinnamon. In everything. I’m basically a sentient chai. – The fantasy of watching trash TV with a giant mug of lactose-free, sugar-free hot choc and zero obligations.
On the “doing things because I have to, not because I want to” list: • Looking for work • Doing work • Starting 7 side hustles because bills • Also, doing dishes (or rather, avoiding them entirely)
My soul? Currently on a hunger strike. All it wants is to make weird, beautiful things: paint, write, doodle, sing to plants, get lost in a good audiobook (if I could actually find one narrated by someone who doesn’t sound like a robot or a smug yoga teacher).
Also, if my body could leave me a Post-it note, it would say: “I’m in spasm. I’m twitching like a haunted doll. Please sort this out.”
A few other thoughts, while we’re here: I’ve irrationally decided that my long, tangled hair is now my entire identity and also the enemy and needs the chop.
My autobiography title this week is How I Turned Into a Pot Plant and Suffered My Own Neglect.
Speaking of plants, I watered two of them recently, and they’re thriving. Who knew that water helps? Revolutionary.
That’s where I’m at. Tired. Unapologetically salty. Creatively starved. But weirdly hopeful that something good will take root if I just keep showing up. Maybe a little scrappy. Maybe not polished. But real.
Let’s see what grows.
— Kate
Bugsy says he won’t eat anything dead and unidentifiable this week… if you buy us a coffee: buymeacoffee.com/kateandginger
This weeks’s productivity level: 2/10 , but my plants are alive, so.
Mood-Support Beverage™ of the Week:Existential Crampuccino™, spicy, bitter, best served in bed.
Unsolicited Product Endorsement:This entry is not sponsored by SheWee™, but it should be.
Bugsy’s Digestive Adventures™: This week’s highlight: decomposing pelt from the Upside Down™ Pet Buffet.
Bugsy says he won’t eat anything dead and unidentifiable next week… if you buy us a coffee: buymeacoffee.com/kateandginger
