When “Just” Isn’t simple
(Adapted from my upcoming book, “A Regular Person’s Guide to Living With Chronic Pain)
When “Just” Isn’t Simple
Few words sting quite like just when you’re living with chronic pain. It might sound harmless enough on the surface, yet it carries an assumption that effort, access, and capacity are universal. In this context, it can feel like a four-letter word that cuts to the bone.
“Just go drop that off.”
“Just run over there.”
“Just drive downtown and…”
Those little “justs” are often tossed out casually, and they can feel insensitive to someone whose daily movements require planning, pacing, and symptom management. Every time I heard a version of that phrase, whether from a medical professional, someone managing my disability paperwork, or others, my immediate thought was the same: Seriously? If I could “just” do all those things, I probably wouldn’t be in this situation.
A former coworker of mine from Texas used to say, “That really chapped my ass,” when something really bothered her. Well, this was one of those things for me. I lost count of how many times I heard someone tell me to “just drive to the office” or “just drop these forms off downtown,” as if mobility, transportation, and logistics were simple for someone navigating severe pain. I remember one call in particular when a representative told me to deliver medical records to another city that same day, nearly an hour away. I asked, only half joking, if they were planning to pay for my ride there since I couldn’t drive myself. It wasn’t my most diplomatic moment, but I think they got the message.
When Language Assumes Ease
To them, it was a simple errand. To me, it was a maze of planning and endurance — arranging transportation, counting the steps into buildings, checking for an elevator, packing enough ice packs to survive the trip. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t do it — it was that I couldn’t, not without significant strain, expense, and physical fallout.
Moments like these reveal something deeper than thoughtlessness; they expose the subtle ways ableism creeps into language and expectations. The word “just” implies effortlessness — a kind of baseline physical privilege that many people don’t even realize they have. And while it’s rarely meant maliciously, it can be deeply invalidating. It assumes that what’s easy for one person must be easy for everyone.
That little word “just” also appears in the context of our medical care, minimizing what’s inherently complex for many of us — as if determination or mindset alone could undo pain. And hearing it repeatedly can chip away at one’s self-image. The more I heard it, the more “pathetic” and “useless” I felt, knowing that these were things I could either no longer do or had already tried.
I already felt isolated, my self-esteem had been eroded, and this little word only punctuated those feelings. Like many of us, I had tried every treatment option available and had found no relief, yet I continued to hear how “easy” it should be to fix my pain and return to my old life. Over time, those little “justs” made me feel like I was somehow failing and letting others down — not because I hadn’t tried hard enough, but because the effort itself had become invisible.
When “Just” Turns Inward
“Just push through it.”
“Just think positive.”
“Just try yoga/meditation/relaxation techniques/this new treatment/exercise.”
“Just take a few weeks off, and you’ll feel better.”
Even now, I sometimes catch myself thinking I should just manage something that’s truly beyond my current capacity — that’s how deeply those expectations permeate. They’ve been baked into the language we all use every day.
Eventually, this language doesn’t just come from the outside — it seeps inward. We begin to measure ourselves against a standard that was never designed with our bodies in mind. I noticed how often I framed my own needs with qualifiers, trying to make them sound smaller, simpler, more acceptable.
I should just be able to do this.
It shouldn’t be that hard.
And when I couldn’t, the conclusion felt inevitable: Something must be wrong with me.
This is how a single word can shape self-image — not all at once, but cumulatively, through repetition. Language that assumes ease reflects an unexamined bias about what bodies should be able to do. Little by little, it can affect how we see ourselves unless we learn to notice it and interrupt it.
Choosing When — and How — to Speak
I was surprised by how often I’d heard the word “just” from those who managed my medical leave at my former job. Before my own experience with chronic pain, I might not have recognized the harm in that little word either. I probably used it myself at times — but I can promise that if my job had involved helping people with disabilities or chronic conditions, I would have learned quickly to choose my words more carefully.
This isn’t about being perfect all the time; it’s about awareness and empathy. Still, when you’re on the receiving end, that lack of understanding can feel upsetting or even humiliating.
If this is something you’ve encountered, you might want to explain the effort each task requires or point out how their language lands. But sometimes, even that feels like too much emotional labor. If you do have the energy, though, these moments can become opportunities to educate.
You might say, “I know this may sound like a simple request, but it’s actually quite complicated for me right now. Are there any alternatives — maybe submitting things online or sending them by mail?”
Often, the people giving instructions aren’t intentionally insensitive; they simply haven’t thought it through. And sometimes, once you ask, new possibilities emerge that no one had considered.
There’s real value in speaking up — kindly, clearly, and without apology. We don’t have to take a submissive role or feel we don’t deserve to voice what’s realistic for us and what’s not. Naming the difficulty of a “just” moment isn’t complaining; it’s asserting your reality.
It’s advocating not only for yourself, but for everyone whose needs are too often minimized or dismissed. This is how awareness spreads: one honest and truthful conversation at a time.
We can also remember that not every instance of ableist language deserves the full weight of our energy. Some comments can be met with grace and left behind, while others might require a more direct response or even a conversation with a supervisor. Discernment helps us decide which is which.
At its core, this isn’t only about language — it’s about respect. Everyone deserves to have their limits understood and their needs met without judgment. Sensitivity training in the medical and disability management fields would go a long way toward addressing these blind spots, but in the meantime, each of us can model that awareness ourselves. Of course, “just” is only one small word among many that reveal how society still struggles to make space for invisible disabilities. Words like ‘should,’ ‘normal,’ or even well-meant phrases like “you’ll be your old self again soon” can carry assumptions that someone’s current reality isn’t valid. The more we notice these patterns, the more we recognize the need to challenge them — in whatever way feels right to us.
There are many ways that ableism shows up in our daily lives, and this is only one example. There are barriers and obstacles of all kinds out there, and each of us can decide how much energy we direct toward pointing them out. What matters most is that we remember one thing: These barriers do not define us. They are not a reflection of our needs or our existence. We must carry that reminder with us always, and we must avoid internalizing ableism and ableist language, seeing them for what they are: a lack of awareness and sensitivity, rather than a box we fit into. Whether we choose to speak to those “justs” or not, we can see the power of language as a tool for empathy rather than dismissal.
We can also begin to notice how we speak to ourselves when no one else is listening. Replacing I should just… with This actually takes more than it appears can be a powerful form of self-honoring. These small shifts in our inner conversation may not change our circumstances, but they can soften the way we move through them — and that matters.
Moments like these are invitations — opportunities to speak truth gently but firmly, to remind others that what seems simple to one person may be nearly impossible for another. When we respond from a calm sense of self-respect rather than resentment, we expand the circle of understanding around us. And in doing so, we reaffirm something essential: Our voice matters, our experience matters, and asking for what we need is never something we have to minimize, justify, or apologize for.
With you on the journey,
Julie 🦋
ableism ableist language chronic pain chronic illness limitations expectations reasonable teaching moment self-awareness self-honoring healing journey speaking up truth advocacy self-advocacy