The camera lens is a tiny, judgmental eye, and at 9:03 a.m., it flickers blue to signal I am officially ‘present.’ I am sitting in a chair that cost the company $878, designed by someone who clearly never had a disc slip out of place, while my lower back hums with a frequency that suggests a localized electrical fire. On the screen, my manager is laughing about a weekend hike, and someone else is complaining about needing 48 ounces of coffee just to see straight. I join in the laughter. I don’t mention that my left leg has been numb since 4:08 a.m., or that I spent the last hour weighing the pros and cons of taking a treatment that might actually help me focus but could potentially make my eyes look just heavy enough for a colleague to ask if I’m ‘feeling okay’ with that specific, sharp-edged tilt of the head.

This is the silent tax of the modern workplace. We are permitted to be human only in ways that are aesthetically pleasing or relatable. You can be tired, provided it’s because you were productive or socially active. You can be ‘under the weather’ if it’s a legible, temporary virus with a clear expiration date. But if you are managing something persistent, something that requires a nuanced approach to relief, you are suddenly walking a tightrope. You have to decide if the relief is worth the risk of being perceived as unreliable. It is a calculation I make 18 times a day, and it never gets easier.

I’m thinking about this because last week, during a high-stakes presentation about chimney safety protocols-I’ve been an inspector for 18 years, by the way-I got the hiccups. Not just a single ‘hic,’ but a violent, rhythmic spasm that lasted for 8 minutes. There I was, explaining the structural integrity of a 188-foot flue, and my body decided to turn me into a punchline. I could see the faces on the Zoom grid: some were amused, some were annoyed, but most had that look of quiet doubt. If I couldn’t control my own diaphragm, how could I be trusted with the thermal dynamics of a residential heating system? It was a trivial moment, but it mirrored the much deeper fear I carry about my chronic pain. If they see the treatment, they doubt the competence. If they see the pain, they doubt the stamina.

The Architecture of Stigma

This isn’t just about interpersonal friction. The stigma is baked into the very architecture of how we work. Look at the attendance policies that reward ‘perfect’ records, or the HR software that flags a 48-minute lapse in activity as a sign of disengagement. These systems are built for robots, or at least for people who have the luxury of bodies that don’t talk back. When your body starts a conversation with you in the middle of a shift, you are forced to choose between listening to it and maintaining the metrics that keep you employed. We’ve created a culture where the ‘ideal worker’ is an entity without a biology.

We talk a lot about ‘bringing your whole self to work,’ but that’s a lie. You’re supposed to bring the ‘best’ version of yourself, the one that has been sanded down and polished. The version that doesn’t need a heating pad or a specific tincture to get through a Tuesday. There’s a particular kind of loneliness in being in a room full of people and realizing that your survival strategy-the things you do to keep your body functional enough to be there-must remain a secret. It turns your workspace into a theater where you are both the lead actor and the stagehand, frantically trying to keep the props from falling over while delivering your lines.

The Path to Dignified Relief

This is why finding a path to relief that doesn’t demand your dignity is so vital. We’ve been conditioned to think that any treatment that deviates from the ‘standard’ is something to be whispered about in the parking lot. But why? If a treatment allows me to show up, to be present, and to do the work I’ve spent 18 years mastering, why should it be stigmatized? Organizations like Green 420 Life represent a shift in that thinking, moving away from the idea that managing your health is something that needs to be hidden in the shadows. They understand that the goal isn’t just to make the pain disappear, but to allow the person to remain whole and capable in a world that often demands they be neither.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the 1008 different ways I’ve tried to mask my discomfort over the years. I’ve worn extra layers to hide patches, I’ve timed my doses with the precision of a Swiss train schedule to avoid ‘peak’ effects during meetings, and I’ve mastered the art of the ‘poker face’ when a spasm hits during a site walk. It’s exhausting. The cognitive load of pretending to be 100 percent fine is often heavier than the physical pain itself. It’s a secondary job that we don’t get paid for, a layer of emotional labor that drains our batteries before we’ve even started our actual tasks.

The Revolution of Oliver J.

Oliver J. and I were sitting on a tailgate last month, looking up at a particularly difficult chimney that needed 48 feet of relining. He looked at me and said, ‘You know, I’m tired of pretending I’m not 58 years old.’ He had a small bottle of something in his hand, and for the first time in the 8 years I’ve known him, he didn’t try to hide it when a neighbor walked by. He just used it, sighed, and started prepping the winch. It was a small moment, almost invisible, but it felt like a revolution. He was choosing his ability to do the job over the ‘look’ of the job. He was being an inspector, not a character playing an inspector.

Rethinking Support

We need to stop treating ‘support’ as a checkbox for HR and start treating it as a fundamental right of the human body. If a workplace claims to value health, it must value the messy, complicated reality of health management. That means acknowledging that some of us need more than a green apple and a standing desk. It means recognizing that the treatments we choose are valid tools in our professional toolkit, not marks of weakness or lack of focus. The irony is that when we are allowed to manage our pain effectively, we are actually better at our jobs. We are more creative, more resilient, and far more likely to stay with a company for 18 years instead of burning out in 8 months.

I’m still working on it. I still feel that spike of anxiety when I have to explain why I’m standing up in the middle of a 48-minute call. I still catch myself checking my eyes in the mirror three times before I walk into a client meeting. But I’m trying to be more like Oliver. I’m trying to realize that if someone doubts my competence because I am taking care of my body, that is their failure of imagination, not my failure as a professional. We are not just inputs in a spreadsheet; we are complex biological systems operating in a high-pressure environment. It’s time our workplace culture started reflecting that reality.

Conclusion: Embracing Persistence

The next time you see someone in your office-or on your screen-who seems a little ‘off,’ or who has a specific routine they follow to get through the day, don’t jump to the conclusion that they are less capable. They might be working twice as hard as you are, carrying a weight you can’t see while performing a role that demands they look weightless. They aren’t asking for pity; they are asking for the space to be a human being without it costing them their career.

I’ll probably have hiccups again one day. I’ll probably have days where my back feels like it’s being gnawed on by a 28-pound badger. But I’m done with the coffee jokes. I’m done with the fictional wellness. I’m going to do my job, and I’m going to manage my body, and I’m going to do both with my head held high. Because at the end of the day, a chimney doesn’t care if the inspector is in pain; it only cares if the inspector knows how to fix the flue. And I know how to fix the flue better than almost anyone else in this 8-county area. If the price of that expertise is a visible management of my own health, then that’s a price the world is just going to have to learn to pay. Why are we so afraid of the truth of our own persistence?