When the Wound Can’t Be Seen, It Still Hurts
My knee is swollen. Yesterday’s run was too long, I think.
At lunch, I mention it to friends. Immediately, they respond. “Put ice on it.” “Keep it elevated.” “I know a good orthopedist.” “Take some painkillers.”
Sympathy flows easily. Because they can see it. The knee is red. A little swollen. Real. Visible. Acceptable.
My anxiety is also swollen today. Yesterday’s confrontation with my boss crushed something inside me. Words were said. Harsh words. Unfair words. They sit in my chest now like stones.
But I mention nothing about this. Because this swelling has no redness. No heat. No acceptable vocabulary in polite conversation.
Physical pain speaks a language everyone understands. “My back hurts.” “I have a migraine.” “My ankle is twisted.”
People nod. They get it. They’ve felt it too.
But emotional pain? “My soul feels crushed.” “I’m drowning in emptiness.” “My chest feels hollow.”
These need translation into safer terms. “I’m stressed.” “Work pressure.” “Feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
The body’s betrayals earn compassion. The mind’s earn suspicion.
We’ve divided health into two categories. Acceptable and questionable.
Diabetes is medical. Depression is weakness. Heart surgery is recovery. Therapy is indulgence. Medicine for blood pressure is healthcare. Medicine for racing thoughts is dependency.
This division makes no sense. Science tells us that emotional pain activates the same brain pathways as physical pain. Psychological trauma changes brain chemistry as much as any physical injury.
But we ignore this. We pretend the mind and body are separate. Like consciousness floats somewhere above flesh, untouched by biology, immune to physical reality.
Even the language shows our bias.
Physical problems get clinical names. Hypertension. Gastritis. Torn ligament. Medical. Official. Real.
Emotional problems get diminished. “Feeling blue.” “Having a rough patch.” “Going through something.”
Vague. Temporary. Not quite real.
I can show X-rays of my fractured wrist. Blood tests revealing vitamin deficiency. MRIs mapping damage in my spine.
But how do I show the architecture of despair? How do I prove the weight of worry that makes getting out of bed feel like moving mountains? How do I display anxiety on a scan? Where’s the blood test for emptiness?
Physical health makes sense to us. It follows rules we understand. Broken parts get fixed. Depleted resources get replenished. Damaged tissue heals with time.
Like fixing a car. Like repairing a house. Mechanical. Simple. Controllable.
Emotional health is messier. More complex. Harder to fix. And this threatens our illusion of control.
Maybe that’s why we fear it. Why we hide it.
A broken bone doesn’t threaten who we are. It’s just a bone. It broke. It happens. No shame.
But a broken spirit? That suggests something fundamentally wrong. Not with the body, but with us. Our character. Our strength. Our worth.
Here’s the deepest irony: We’ll discuss physical symptoms that embarrass us. Digestive problems. Sexual dysfunction. Skin conditions we’d rather hide.
But we won’t admit to emotional symptoms. The anxiety that wakes us at 3 AM. The depression that makes colors look gray. The panic that makes breathing hard.
Why? Because physical embarrassment is temporary. Emotional revelation feels permanent. Like admitting weakness that can never be taken back.
My father had high blood pressure. He told everyone. Took his pills openly. Discussed it with doctors, friends, family.
My father also had depression. Nobody knew. He hid it for decades. Drank to cope. Suffered in silence. Because admitting it felt like admitting failure.
The blood pressure was medical. The depression was shame.
Both were biology. Both needed treatment. But only one was acceptable.
I think about this at night. The double standard we live with.
If my leg is broken, I use crutches without shame. But if my mind is broken, I hide it. Smile through pain. Pretend everything is fine.
If I need surgery, people visit with flowers. But if I need therapy, I go alone, secretly, hoping no one finds out.
If I take medicine for my heart, it’s healthcare. If I take medicine for my mind, it’s weakness. Dependency. Something to hide.
We fear emotional vulnerability because it reveals too much. Shows the cracks in the person we present to the world. The perfect image we maintain.
Physical illness is external. It happens to us. Not our fault.
Emotional illness feels internal. Part of us. Our fault. Our failure.
But this is wrong. Depression is as biological as diabetes. Anxiety is as chemical as any physical disease. Trauma changes the brain the way a fall breaks a bone.
None of it is weakness. All of it is human.
Tonight, I try something different. Radical honesty.
I tell my wife about the swollen knee. But I also tell her about the anxiety. The one that’s been eating at my chest for weeks. The confrontation with my boss. The words that wounded. The fear that won’t leave.
I expect judgment. Discomfort. The usual response when emotional truth emerges.
But her response surprises me.
The same gentle concern she showed for my knee. The same offers of support and care. “What can I do?” “Do you want to talk about it?” “Should we call someone who can help?”
She treats my emotional pain with the same seriousness as my physical pain.
Because she understands something I’m learning: The wound doesn’t need to be visible to be real.
My knee will heal in a week. The swelling will go down. The pain will fade. Ice and rest and time.
My anxiety might take longer. Might need different treatment. Therapy maybe. Medication perhaps. Definitely care. Definitely attention.
Both are real. Both deserve healing. Both are medical, not moral.
I think about changing the conversation. Not just with my wife, but with everyone.
Talking about emotional health the way we talk about physical health. Without shame. Without whispers. Without diminishing the reality of invisible pain.
“I’m seeing a therapist” said with the same ease as “I’m seeing a dentist.”
“I take medication for anxiety” said with the same normalcy as “I take medication for allergies.”
“I’m struggling with depression” said with the same expectation of support as “I’m recovering from surgery.”
The mind is part of the body. Mental health is health. Emotional pain is pain.
Not less real because it can’t be X-rayed. Not less serious because it can’t be bandaged. Not less deserving of care because it lives in consciousness instead of tissue.
My knee is swollen. My anxiety is swollen. Both need attention. Both deserve healing. Both are part of being human in a body that sometimes breaks in visible ways and sometimes in invisible ones.
The healing doesn’t need to be mechanical to be medical. The pain doesn’t need to be visible to be real.
Tonight, I ice my knee. Tomorrow, I call a therapist.
Both are healthcare. Both are healing. Both are okay.
And maybe, slowly, we can all learn this. That the mind lives in the body. That emotional pain is biological pain. That healing comes in many forms—pills and ice, therapy and rest, medication and time.
All of it medical. All of it necessary. All of it human.
The pain that has no name still needs healing. The wound that can’t be seen still needs care.
It’s time we treated both with equal compassion.
