For those living with cystic fibrosis, it does not pause when you clock in to work. It doesn’t wait until meetings are over or the workday officially begins. CF is present long before arrival — in medications, airway clearance, coughing fits, and the sheer athletic event it can be just to be upright, dressed, and functioning by 9 a.m.

Some people start their day with coffee.

Some of us start with medical equipment.

That reality shapes how I show up to work, whether anyone notices or not. And most days, they don’t.

For years, I tried to be “the good employee with CF.” The agreeable one. The low-maintenance one. The one who didn’t want to be that person — the one whose health required accommodations, conversations, or pauses. I said ‘I’m fine’ more times than I can count, mostly because it was easier than explaining that “fine” is a relative word when you live with a chronic illness.

In my career, I learned quickly that many workplaces love dedication. They celebrate hustle. They reward showing up early, staying late, and pushing through. But dedication becomes complicated when your body doesn’t cooperate on command, and hustle looks different when survival is already a full-time job.

Wearing a face mask at work wasn’t something I gave much thought to — until it clearly became something others paid a lot of attention to. For me, it was simple: basic self-preservation.

What struck me most was the contrast.

I watched coworkers drag themselves into work at 9 a.m., clearly sick — sniffling, coughing, and announcing it casually (sometimes proudly), as if powering through was a badge of honor. I would occasionally ask — carefully, politely — if someone was ill. Not out of nosiness, but necessity. Even minor illnesses can have serious consequences for someone with CF.

The answer was almost always the same.

“Oh no — just allergies.”

Always allergies.
Every season.
Every symptom.

Wearing a mask also created a strange social barrier I hadn’t fully anticipated. It’s harder to build relationships when half your face is covered. It’s even more difficult when your voice is muffled. More than once, I worried I was misunderstood — mistaken for being upset or disengaged simply because people couldn’t hear me. When I raised my voice so I could be understood, it sometimes came across as frustration instead of effort.

There’s a special irony in being perceived as difficult when you’re actually just trying to breathe.

That gap between intention and perception became familiar.

One moment in particular stays with me.

A senior male colleague and I stepped outside the building to look for a homeless woman we were trying to assist. When she wasn’t at the agreed-upon meeting spot, I continued searching nearby, scanning the area and unwilling to simply walk away. After a short time, he stopped and said, “I don’t have time for this.” He followed it by explaining that he had been working since 7:30 that morning.

I remember thinking, “That’s impressive. Truly. Also … you have no idea.”

What he couldn’t see was what it took for me just to be standing there. For someone living with cystic fibrosis, getting out the door and functioning by 9 a.m. can already feel like a full workday. Medications. Nebulizers. Airway clearance. Fatigue that never appears on a timesheet. I had already done hours of invisible labor before I ever arrived.

But none of that shows up on a schedule. None of it gets applauded. And none of it is obvious. And that is often where the disconnect begins.

On the drive home, I held back tears. It wasn’t just about that moment. It was the accumulation of moments like it. The quiet reminders that once again, I felt invisible.

He had just told me — firmly — that he’d been working since 7:30 that morning. And in that moment, I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.

Was I supposed to list my treatments?
My medications?
My mornings that start hours before most people wake up?

So I said nothing.

Instead, I swallowed it. Again.

Over time, I was told — more than once — that I needed to “suck up my emotions.” To be tougher. Quieter. Less sensitive. Easier to manage. But what people didn’t see was that I wasn’t being emotional — I was being human. I was carrying something heavy every single day and doing it as gracefully as I knew how.

Sometimes, the tears weren’t about weakness. They were about exhaustion. From constantly proving that what you carry matters.

Living with CF means constantly navigating what people can’t see — and what they assume. It means managing your health quietly while meeting expectations that were never designed with chronic illness in mind.

I share these experiences not to assign blame, but to invite awareness. Chronic illness doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t follow schedules. And it doesn’t disappear just because someone shows up and does their job well.

CF comes to work with me every day.

It sits in meetings.
It rides in the car.
It listens politely while people talk about being tired.

And until workplaces learn to recognize invisible labor, precaution, and dignity as part of what inclusion truly means, people living with chronic illness will continue to carry more than anyone realizes — often with a sense of humor, because sometimes that’s the only way through.

Interested in sharing your story? The CF Community Blog wants to hear from you.