Visibility: A Holy Choice

by Elisa Friedlander

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How visible do we want to be?      

Parshah Tetzaveh tells the story of G-d appointing Aaron and his sons as Kohanim, priests who performed rituals and sacrifices on behalf of the Israelites. In a nutshell, G-d commanded Aaron, the Kohen Gadol, or High Priest, and his sons to wear holy garments while serving him. They rose to the occasion, adorning themselves in fine linens, intricately embroidered sashes, tunics, and turbans made of blue, purple, gold, and scarlet yarn. Upon Aaron’s garments lay stones engraved with the names of the tribes, symbolizing and elevating the duty and holiness of the priesthood.

In other words, they became visible. 

My personal relationship with visibility is marked by a long history of eye-opening moments that I sometimes reflect on at unexpected crossroads in my life. As a psychotherapist and writing group facilitator for people facing chronic pain, illness, and disability, I witness a range of emotions tied to visibility. From the lens of my professional and lived experience, I have the privilege of helping others explore how their sense of identity is intertwined with their experiences of visibility. 

Unlike my deeply rooted and unwavering relationship to my Jewish and lesbian identities, navigating the world with chronic pain and disability is complex. The part of me that wants visibility – a part that, among other truths, holds the inherently human desire to be witnessed – coexists with the part of me that prefers to embody my essence while keeping my sometimes disabling pain and other symptoms unseen. 

The voice of the latter most often takes center stage. A naturally vibrant and playful person, I imagine this part of me as a dolphin, spirited and social, gliding through life’s waters with physical comfort and ease. In contrast, I picture the part of me that’s not apparent to others as prey for a thunderous, roaring lion, its weighty paws pressing into my spine, driving in another broken surgical screw and playing its favorite game of nerve root compression.

On occasion, when others learn about my medical conditions and related pain, with the best intentions, they applaud me for being skillful at “faking” feeling good in my body. I understand that it must seem impossible for a dolphin and a lion’s prey to co-exist, and even more so for a dolphin to take up the most space. But faking implies intentional deceit, and people with chronic pain are not generally afforded that luxury. We make choices about visibility, and these choices are most often a conscious or unconscious response to societal stigma. More than a single D’var Torah could contain, the ways in which we relate to visibility can be as far-reaching and dynamic as our pain or disability.

Many years ago, after Friday evening Shabbat services, my now-wife and I stood outside our synagogue, enjoying the fresh California coastal air with our fellow congregants. Inspired by the spiritual teachings and feeling a sense of stillness in my body, I approached our rabbi to thank him and say goodnight. 

“How are you doing?” he asked. 

“I’m good, you know, except for the pain,” I responded. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing new...you know, the genetic stuff, it’s just bad right now, but life is good.” 

“I didn’t know you had anything wrong,” he said.

Leora, a woman in her mid-seventies, chimed in, “Well, I’m getting a new hip!” 

“That’s great…I hope your new hip moves like this so you can dance!” I said, swaying my own hips widely while considering how my spine might not appreciate the dramatic movement. After Leora gives me a laughing thumbs-up and finds her way to another conversation, the rabbi tells me he’s been having some back pain and is in physical therapy.

“I’m so sorry you’re in pain—that’s awful,” I said.

“Thanks. I would love to hear about your back. I had no idea,” he said.

 “I guess I never mentioned it, come to think of it,” I said. Even though we never talked about my spine, I somehow felt surprised he didn’t know.  

“I’m so curious,” I said. “All these years, with my two back supports, lying on the pews or on the floor, stretching, standing in the back, or walking around during services…What have you thought all this time?” I asked. 

His voice was as nonchalant as the shrug of his shoulders when he replied. 

“I thought you were Berkeley.”

Ah… he thought I was Berkeley! Living in the Bay Area at the time, I understood what it meant to use the city “Berkeley” as an adjective for its culture and its residents: open, comfortable, nonconforming, and unapologetic about self-care. I thought I had made the pain and disability visible, but to him, I was just Berkeley. 

Amused and somewhat intrigued by the conversation, I thought about the stories we tell ourselves about visibility. The story I told myself was that, from my behavior, the rabbi could “see” my pain, and that perhaps showing up at services despite the pain communicated how much I valued him and the congregation; that my visibility was meaningful to both of us, as if it were an unspoken exchange of witness. As it turned out, he saw and accepted me, just not for reasons related to my experience of pain or disability. 

Beyond their shared knowledge of the priests’ roles, what narratives might people in the community have constructed about the priests wearing their sacred garments? Even when we make certain parts of ourselves visible, the meaning we attach reflects our own values, needs, and life stories. 

Several years after my “Berkeley” lesson in visibility and soon after the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage, I married my beshert (a Yiddish word meaning two people are “meant to be” together). A couple of weeks later, with giddy anticipation of seeing our wedding photos for the first time, I felt the magnitude of what they would represent. Our “we are married!” joy was compounded by tearful appreciation for all those who came before us and made it possible for LGBTQ+ folks in the US to marry the love of their lives (not surprisingly, Berkeley, a leader in the disability rights movement, was pivotal in this visibility effort as well).  

My wife and I opened the zip drive to find hundreds of smiling moments on the faces of our friends, family, our rabbi, and, of course, the newlywedded “us”. But something wasn’t right. 

My thin yet noticeable neck-surgery scar, which I call “my necklace,” wasn’t visible. When I realized it had been edited out, I found myself holding my breath, initially more out of surprise than anything else, because the photographer hadn’t mentioned that he would do this.

This disquieting moment also brought guilt. The photographer had clearly altered the photos out of kindness, and although I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, I didn’t want his gift. For our ceremony, I had removed the neck brace I’d been wearing for six months (and would continue wearing for another three), but I hadn’t chosen to remove my scar, a coalescence of two scars from my first and second complex, multi-level spine surgeries that changed the trajectory of my life. The scar is part of my story, and I didn’t want someone to erase it – to erase a part of me, or a part of our love story. It belonged in our wedding photos. The photographer, perplexed yet agreeable, kindly restored the pictures to their natural state. I was once again visible, adorned with my holy necklace. 

What was it like, I wonder, for Aaron and his sons to know that each color, stitch, and placement of the garments was deliberate and holy? Did they feel more significant and deserving, or did they grapple with imposter syndrome? Were they embarrassed or burdened by the responsibility (or by the scratchy fabric)? Maybe some thought, "Oh no, another workday…better dress up in case I run into the boss!" while others stood taller, eager to feel the garments against their bodies. I imagine the ritual of dressing might have revealed the priests’ lesser-seen parts, aspects of themselves that might otherwise have gone unnoticed – whether or not they chose to make them visible to others. 

The notion of visibility, in all of its complexities, is embedded in the cultures of chronic pain, illness, and disability and woven into the fabric of Jewish history and our present-day practices. Our choices about visibility are deeply personal and, as I imagine G-d would tell us, Holy.  

Author Note: 

Although not the focus of this piece, I want to name the deeply concerning implications of visibility for so many at this time. May we soon see healing in the world so that every individual is afforded the safety and agency to choose how and when they wish to be seen. 

Elisa Friedlander is a psychotherapist, writer, and Certified Journal Therapist who facilitates therapeutic writing and poetry workshops globally. She brings extensive clinical and lived experience to her work with those navigating life with chronic pain, illness, and disability. Elisa is a faculty member at the Therapeutic Writing Institute and an international conference presenter where she trains psychotherapists to work more ethically and effectively with people experiencing chronic pain, illness, and disability. Elisa is currently working on a book based on her original, groundbreaking six-week curriculum, “Pain Meets Pen™: Quieting Chronic Pain and Illness with Therapeutic Writing. Visit Elisa at www.InkToInsight.com