What if the superpower you once longed for — the gift of invisibility — was never meant to protect you, but to prepare you… to be seen?
There are some griefs that never got names. Some silences that became the soundtrack of our becoming. Some stories that didn’t end— they just… stopped.
This is one of them.
It doesn’t have a neat beginning or a tidy end. It begins somewhere in the blur between childhood and adulthood — not when everything broke, but when no one noticed it had. When the girl who used to light up rooms learned how to vanish in plain sight.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she had to.
At some point, the cloak that once kept you hidden begins to itch. Not from shame or blame, but from the discomfort of outgrowing who you were asked to be. It begins slowly — a tension between safety and truth. A quiet tug in the chest. A growing recognition that invisibility is no longer protective, but confining.
The Spell We Never Knew We Were Under
We learned to survive by dimming our light.
Unconscious loyalty is a silent spell — cast not with words, but through survival, repetition, and inherited pain. It keeps generations bound to the very behaviours that once wounded them, believing they are being loyal by enduring, staying, or fixing what was never theirs to carry. In the lineage of trauma, especially in families with narcissistic dynamics, love is often confused with duty, silence mistaken for peace, and endurance seen as virtue. We wear these patterns like ancestral cloaks, never realising we have a choice to take them off.
But survival is not the same as living. And one day, the soul begins to speak louder than fear. It often begins as quiet discontent. A knowing that living in loyalty to pain is no longer an option.
Could walking away from what no longer sees you be the very act that lets you see yourself clearly for the first time?
When Time Froze
There was a particular kind of disappearance that happened for me, not in a single moment, but over a season of silence. It arrived after my mother left — not with drama or farewell, but with a silence so vast it swallowed everything familiar.
I tried to hold the family together, worried about my dad, feeling the weight of everyone else’s fragility, while no one thought to care for me. There was no ritual, no holding, no one to say, “This is grief. This is sacred.” Instead, I was told I was an “adult”. As though that declaration was enough to erase the pain.
But adulthood does not cancel abandonment. It does not dissolve the child who still lives within, wide-eyed and bewildered, trying to understand why the world she knew disappeared overnight.
Time, for a while, froze. Everything became a performance — working, smiling, coping — while inside, I was crumbling. At work, tears would ambush me. I’d hide behind partitions or lock myself in the bathroom, not even knowing what I was crying for, only that something enormous had ruptured and no one seemed to notice.
There was no handbook for this grief. I searched for reflections, anything to name what I was going through. Advice for parents of young children is abundant. But what of us — the adult children, just stepping into life, who had barely tasted safety before it vanished. The silence was deafening. When no one captures you in photos anymore, when your memories are deemed disposable, the unconscious message becomes: You don’t matter. Your pain is not valid. Your story is not important. You must carry this alone.
And so I disappeared — not just from others, but from myself.
The Power of Invisibility… and the Pain of It
When we were young, invisibility could feel like a gift. A place to disappear into imagination. A way to stay safe in a world that didn’t know how to hold our fullness. We were the watchers. The feelers. The quiet ones in the corner reading energy more fluently than words. Noticed only when needed, often misunderstood.
We became masters of adaptation. Hyper-aware. Hyper-responsible. Carrying the emotional weight of households while our own hearts went unseen.
And yet… something else was quietly forming.
In the space where we were not seen by others, we began to see ourselves.
Not fully. Not at once. But enough to sense that there is more — more to us, more to life, more to what love could be.
Healing the Wounds of Betrayal and Abandonment
Betrayal and abandonment by those closest to us can feel like spiritual annihilation. It’s often the soul’s call to awaken. The longing to be received, and the repeated cycle of not being seen, creates a wound so deep it can take years to unravel.
Narcissism, emotional unavailability, and distortion of perception feed into this cycle, creating confusion about our self-worth.
There is a sacred initiation that comes when we realise invisibility is no longer our protection, but our prison.
To be seen — truly seen — is the soul’s great longing. And also, its greatest fear. Because when you’ve been dismissed, denied, or disappeared, visibility feels vulnerable. But it is in this trembling that power is reborn.
To be visible is not to be loud.
To be visible is not to be perfect.
To be visible is to be present — fully — in the truth of who you are.
Not the curated self. Not the role you played to belong. But the essence of your being, a radiant light, unmoved by external gaze.
This is not visibility to validation. This is visibility as remembrance.
Choosing Peace Over Pattern
Trying to be understood eventually becomes a self-betrayal. And so, one day, I stopped. I stopped fighting to be chosen, and started choosing myself.
But the soul remembers.
The girl who had been frozen in time was still within me — waiting. And so I began the work.
I turned toward the girl who disappeared — not to shame her, or fix her, or force her to grow up — but to see her. To sit beside her in the ruins of time. To honour what she held alone for so long. And to whisper, You didn’t disappear. You went underground. You waited until it was safe to return.
It wasn’t immediate. Healing, for me, came not in grand revelations, but in small, sacred recognitions: letting the tears fall without needing to explain them. Naming the moments that once froze me. Listening not to the noise of the world, but to the quiet wisdom rising inside.
And piece by piece, I gathered the girl back into my arms.
The Visibility of the Soul: Embodying the Feminine
True visibility is not about being seen by the world — it’s about being seen by your own soul. She doesn’t arrive with fanfare. There’s no grand unveiling. Just a quiet unfurling, like sunlight touching frost— the slow thaw of a soul remembering her own name.
It’s the moment you stop hiding from your knowing. The moment you no longer silence your truth to keep the peace. The moment you realise your visibility is the medicine— not just for you, but for the world.
When we shed invisibility, we do not become someone new — we return to who we were before the world asked us to shrink. And in that return, we become mirrors for others. Not performative, but powerful. Not to provoke, but to awaken.
The awakened feminine doesn’t shout to be seen. Her presence speaks for her. She no longer performs, no longer apologises for taking up space. She doesn’t wear masks. She doesn’t shrink to fit into places she’s outgrown.
She speaks with the voice of the child who was never heard.
She sings with the power of all the tears never cried.
She walks with the wisdom of lifetimes reclaimed.
She is not a role to play — she is a frequency. A living embodiment of the soul: anchored in truth, held by the Divine, and unashamed of her scars. Her pain no longer defines her. Her past no longer owns her. No longer seeking closure. No longer begging to be chosen.
Because she has chosen herself.
And in that wild, holy choosing, she becomes both sanctuary and storm.
She becomes the tuning fork for truth.
The permission slip for presence.
The spell-breaker for the collective.
She becomes a beacon for all those who still believe they are invisible.
And perhaps that is the great irony of it all:
She was never truly gone.
She was simply waiting for herself to see her.
With a Truthful Heart,
Victoria
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