The Fear and Reality of Being Invisible

I’m not trying to be quiet anymore. I’ve lived, learned, and I have something to say. But still—too often—I feel invisible. This post is for anyone who’s been told (or treated like) they’re too much,

Invisible. Many of us can recall wanting to be invisible—or hoping to be. Remember the time your hair wasn’t just right or you forgot to put on mascara?

As children, we often felt awkward or not cool enough. Sometimes it really was like being a square peg in a round hole. There’s something about that awkwardness that helps you grow into the person you truly want to be, regardless of others’ opinions. Or at least that’s the hope. Certainly, it’s what we should encourage children to do—become who they want or believe they are meant to be. That’s a difficult task, because as parents, our identity often gets entwined with what we believe is in the best interest of the child.

So if it’s a rite of passage, what does it accomplish? Growing pains aren’t the point of this post—but the reference matters. We need to remember how it felt when we wanted to be invisible. When everyone else’s clothes were better. When we weren’t pretty enough, thin enough, or blonde enough.

I no longer want to be invisible. No, my hair and makeup aren’t perfect—sometimes they’re nonexistent. I’m comfortable in my sweaty workout clothes going public—something that would have been impossible for me years ago.

And yet, now I am invisible to many, and it always surprises me. Because I believe I have value. I have something to say and yes—dammit—I’m saying it. I hope you listen. But if you don’t, well… that’s your loss. I want the discussion. I learn from that. And yes, you can learn from me—from my life experience.

I’ve led a far-from-perfect life. More mistakes than I can count. But I’ve learned. I’ve processed. That’s called critical thinking. And nothing is more valuable. It teaches us, and it allows us—encourages us—to pass on what we’ve learned to the next generation. I don’t know everything. But I sure do know more than I used to.

So why, then, am I invisible to so many? I feel like my lips move, but there’s no sound. I am muted. Or maybe I’m suddenly speaking a language no one understands.

Does my opinion matter? Or is it too loud, too bold, too much? Why can’t I—why shouldn’t I—believe in what matters to me and express it?

It’s a common complaint: older people, especially women, feel invisible. I feel it from many directions, including from family—who, frankly, I thought would be better than that.

What can we do? Maybe we start by asking someone about their life—and truly listening to their stories. Ask someone’s opinion. And value it.

I don’t need to be everyone’s favorite voice. But I do need to be heard.
And I will keep speaking, asking, telling, questioning—because that’s how connection starts. That’s how meaning lives on.
If you feel invisible too, you’re not alone.
I see you. I hope you’ll see me. Let’s not let each other disappear.