Growing up with a family full of autoimmune diseases, pity and sympathy are things we receive almost on a daily basis. We are a unique family; one where most people can’t even comprehend what goes on in our normal routines.

The thought of having two toasters to accommodate the three-fifths of my family who have celiac disease or constant alarms going off for the one-fifth of my family who is a Type 1 diabetic seems like a nightmare to them.

But for us, it’s no nightmare – it’s normal.

Normal isn’t the absence of alarms, restrictions or routines. Normal is what you grow up knowing. And for us, normal is love measured in precautions and care.

People will look at us and say “I’m sorry I could never live like that,” or “I don’t know how you guys do it.” And don’t even get me started on the look on people’s faces when they hear my brother’s diabetic alarms for the first time.

I understand why people respond with sympathy. Illness is often framed as unfortunate, but what that perspective misses is the resilience and love that grow from those experiences.

Pity feels as though you are being looked down upon or as if we are suffering as a family – which my family has never seen ourselves as. To us, our lives are not defined by loss, but rather by adaptation. What it really should be is praise.

Praising my wonderful parents for their nurture and selfless desire to provide for our family in ways more than financially. Whether that be making a whole Thanksgiving feast gluten free for everyone to feel included or waking up in the dire hours of the night to give my brother a juice box to stabilize his sugars while not interrupting his sleep.

If not praise, silence works too. Instead of “I’m sorry,” we don’t need words at all. We need people to listen, to learn, and to realize that illness does not automatically equal misery.

Watching this kind of care everyday has shown me that love is rarely loud; it is consistent, meaningful and oftentimes invisible.

Society often treats chronic illnesses as a tragedy rather than a reality. When we respond with pity instead of understanding, we reduce people to their diagnosis rather than recognizing their strength.

So don’t pity us; recognize us. Recognize the quiet strength in routines no one sees, the love behind every ingredient list checked and alarm answered. Because this isn’t a life of suffering – it’s a life of a family that learned how to show up for each other every single day.