I looked in the mirror recently and realized I am older.
I’ve found myself in a place I never quite imagined, which is odd because if I carried on living, I was always going to end up middle-aged, brown, and a woman. The point is that I am still here, and my cells are aging. I am intrigued by the process. I have started to accept that when people pass me in the street, they now see a middle-aged person rather than a young woman—that is, if they see anyone at all.
Occasionally, an older man will still use the word “girl” to describe women of all ages. For a split second, it confuses me. The tiny, momentary thrill of hearing the word aimed at me quickly subsides, followed by a quiet embarrassment that I felt even a flash of enthusiasm for it.
The truth is, I am grown up at last. I think wiser thoughts and reflect more than I used to. The voice in my head sounds deeper and calmer. This version of me is far more comfortable to live in than the youth that preceded it—a time full of insecurities, awkwardness, and emotional trip-switches. Why couldn’t I have been like this before?
The catch is that fewer people seek out this improved voice because, as predicted, I have become somewhat invisible. I had heard other women speak of this invisibility, but I never entirely believed them. I thought it applied to others, not to me. Surely everyone would want to hear my voice because I had important things to say, delivered in a much wittier way.
I can genuinely concede that arrogance now. But it leaves a question: what do I do from this invisible spot?
Looking at the army of talented, smart younger people out there, I see that they appear incredibly wise, yet beneath the surface, they are guessing their way forward—perhaps even more blindly than those of us who grew up in pre-internet days. I want to join forces with them, not to compete, but to offer a sort of grounded allyship.
Slowly, I have come to see this invisibility as a strength. Stepping out of the vortex of self-doubt about appearance and relevance is a quiet liberation.
The world has undoubtedly moved on since my youth. I remember when it was normal for women to earn half of what men did, and when it was normal for skinheads to spit at me in the street because of my skin color. We are past those days, yet we are not nearly as far forward as we like to pretend.
This is exactly why I must redouble my efforts to be heard, while relishing the fact that I no longer care if people find me a bit pushy. In an era of intense complexity, there is a distinct need for slow-grown, resilient brains to work alongside those raised entirely online. There is work to be done in filling in the outlines of other invisible women, making them visible too.
It turns out that being unseen gives you the perfect vantage point to start changing the view.