The Invisible Woman: Writing to Remember Who I Am

Sometimes I wake up in the morning and everything feels like it’s crushing me. From the moment I open my eyes, it feels like I’m waking up to a battle, not life. The weight of all the things I have to do overwhelms me; yet, I can’t find the strength to do any of them. My body refuses to get up. My soul has already collapsed.

And still, I get up.

Because I have no other choice.

Because no one will tell me, "Take a break."

Because those who are invisible are treated as if they don’t exist.

This is my life right now. I carry a tiny flicker of hope for the future, like a fragile candle. But I have no idea how to get through today — this cursed “now.” It’s as if there’s something stuck in my throat; I can’t swallow. Both physically and emotionally. A knot tied by anxiety, debts, a job I despise, and the body I see in the mirror.

It’s not just work suffocating me; people do too… Everyone has hurt me. Everyone I know. Each one took a small piece of my heart, and now I don’t even know where my heart belongs. I first understood how a woman becomes invisible when I was 18. I was working at a restaurant. The kitchen was a mess, and a big group arrived early in the morning. Everyone was hungry. I was too. My stomach cramped, but I kept working.

Then, the owner’s daughter came to help. She was my age. But her mother grabbed her hand and said, “Come on, you haven’t even eaten breakfast, don’t touch anything.” I hadn’t eaten either. But no one thought about that. I was there, but I was invisible. We were the same age, but from completely different worlds. Something inside me broke that day. That’s when I realized I was invisible.

Time passed. But that feeling never left. I still feel faint, in the background, worthless. Like a side character in the play of life. Someone whose name no one remembers, who has no lines. Who doesn’t even get applause when the curtain falls.

There are days I walk among people like a ghost. They see my face but not the pain underneath. I laugh sometimes, because if I don’t, I’ll collapse. I act strong because if I show weakness, the world will devour me. I’ve learned to carry myself with silence. But silence is heavy. And loneliness… Loneliness is louder than any scream.

But there’s another voice inside me.

Sometimes it whispers:

“Write. Save yourself. If you write, you become visible.”

So I write.

Because I have no other option.

Writing is my refuge, my voice.

It’s the only place where I exist completely, fully, unapologetically.

One day, I want a life where I don’t have to work just to survive. Where I have pets, I can travel whenever I want, and without asking anyone’s permission or thinking twice, I can press a button to help someone. I want to offer people a plate of food, a bit of love, a warm embrace. I want to give others what no one ever gave me.

I don’t know you right now. But if you’re reading these lines, in a way, we have met. And I just want to say this to you:

I wish I could hug you.

I know nothing will heal completely. But I know that a heart that embraces can make even the unhealable bearable.

And with these words, I’m quietly hugging you.

I’m here, I see you.

And maybe — just maybe — that makes us both a little more real.

What about you?

Have you ever felt like a side character in your own life?