There is a quiet group of people moving through Zambia every day, people you pass in a queue, sit next to on a flight or greet in an office corridor, whose lives are shaped by illnesses you cannot see. They look fine. They show up to work, run businesses and look after families. Yet many are navigating symptoms, energy shifts, stigma and the tiredness of explaining themselves again and again. These are Zambians living with invisible illnesses, and you probably know more of them than you realise.

We are very good at recognising disabilities we can see. When someone walks with a crutch or uses a wheelchair, we instinctively adjust. We make space. We soften our pace. But when a condition has no visible marker it slips beneath public awareness. Diabetes, hypertension, autism, ADHD, epilepsy, anxiety, depression, chronic pain, asthma, migraine and sickle cell disease often go unnoticed, along with the long-term effects of HIV or TB treatment. Because we cannot see them, we behave as though nothing extra is required. That is where the strain begins.

Living with an invisible illness means carrying two burdens. First, the condition itself. Second, the expectation to behave as if everything is normal. It means hearing, “But you do not look sick.” It means hiding snacks or medication because you do not want attention. It means pushing through fatigue or dizziness because you fear being judged, and navigating banks, clinics and airports that move at a speed your body cannot always match.

I only understood how different life can feel when a system quietly recognises your needs after a recent trip abroad. I encountered the Hidden Disabilities Sunflower Scheme, an international symbol used in airports and public spaces to show that a person has an invisible disability and may need extra time or patience. The lanyard is simple, green with yellow sunflowers, but its impact surprised me.

I decided to wear one while travelling. I expected very little from it, but the moment I stepped into the airport I felt the shift. Staff noticed the sunflower and approached me with gentleness. When I paused to check my blood sugar, no one rushed me. When I moved slowly, I met patience instead of irritation. Security guided me calmly. Airline staff explained things clearly.

No one asked intrusive questions. The sunflower simply signalled that I might need a softer pace, and that was enough. For the first time in a long while, I did not feel the need to disguise my diabetes to protect other people’s comfort. The system carried the awareness, and I could simply travel as I am.

That experience made me think about how much mental labour people with invisible illnesses carry in Zambia, and how much energy goes into managing perception instead of health. It also showed me how freeing it is when a public space quietly says, “We see you.”

Invisible illnesses are not rare. Diabetes and hypertension are rising. Epilepsy affects many families. Sickle cell disease is widespread. Mental health challenges cut across generations. Neurodivergence remains poorly understood. Many people living with HIV or recovering from TB manage long-term fatigue or fog that others cannot see.

These people are not distant or uncommon. They are our colleagues, neighbours and relatives. Yet our systems often fail them. Think of an airport queue in Lusaka, and imagine standing there during a hypo, a panic episode or severe pain. Think of clinics with long waits and crowded benches. Think of the pressure to appear healthy so you will not be dismissed or misunderstood.

The good news is that it does not take much to introduce dignity. A symbol. A small change in training. A moment of patience. These are not dramatic shifts, yet they transform a person’s experience and reduce emergencies and stress.

What impressed me most about the sunflower scheme was its gentleness. Not pity. Simply recognition. It made me wonder what might change here if we accepted that not every disability is visible. What if our airports, clinics, workplaces and public institutions took this reality seriously? What if we made room for the idea that someone walking slowly or reaching for medication might be dealing with something we cannot see?

This is not only about institutions. It is also about us as individuals. It lives in how we react when someone slows down a queue. How we treat a colleague who asks for flexibility. How quickly we judge the person who looks fine but says they are unwell.

Invisible illness invites us to make compassion less conditional. It asks us to stop expecting proof before offering empathy, and to remember that strength sometimes looks like resting, that health is not a performance.

My experience with the sunflower lanyard was not simply about travel. It was about dignity. It reminded me how powerful recognition can be in its smallest form. We often say we are a warm and welcoming people. True kindness, though, is not only sentiment. It is reflected in how we design systems, how we train staff and how we interpret the needs of others.

Let’s begin imagining a Zambia where invisible illnesses are not dismissed, where people with diabetes do not hide their symptoms, where families managing epilepsy or sickle cell face less judgement, and where people with anxiety or neurodivergence are met with understanding.
The invisible population is all around us. Perhaps the first step is simply choosing to see what has always been there.

Sometimes the quietest symbols carry the strongest message. A pause. A gesture. A sunflower.
A reminder that care does not need to be loud to be life changing.

Kaajal Vaghela is a wellness entrepreneur, sportswear designer, and diabetes wellness consultant with over three decades of lived experience managing Type 1 diabetes. Having previously served as Chairperson of the Lusaka branch of the Diabetes Association of Zambia, she remains a passionate advocate for breaking down myths and building awareness about diabetes. For more personalised coaching or corporate wellness workshops, visit: www.kaajalvaghela.com and for any feedback: [email protected])