The Invisible Woman - When Did I Stop Mattering?
Feeling Invisible at 50? You're Not Alone - And You're Not Done Yet
I used to joke that I'd become invisible some time around my 50th birthday. You know that feeling when you're standing at a bar trying to get served and the bartender looks straight through you to serve the younger woman behind? Or when you're in a meeting and you make a suggestion that gets completely ignored, only for someone younger and more intelligent looking, to say exactly the same thing five minutes later and everyone thinks they are a bloody genius?
It also coincided with my once brilliant eye sight deciding to deteriorate, so I started to do that thing that old people do (I thought I would never be like this), when you show them something on your phone and they move it two feet away from their face. Well, that was me now, to which Caitlin said ‘Mum, you’re old!’
Yes, that.
But it wasn't just waiters and colleagues. Even I had stopped seeing myself as someone with potential. When did that happen? When did I go from being a person with dreams and possibilities to just... background noise? Invisible wallpaper in my own life? I was always the loud, funny, stupid one that made people laugh. Not anymore!
I'd catch sight of myself in shop windows or see photos of myself and think "who's that middle-aged woman?" before realizing with a jolt that it was me. When had I become her? The woman who faded into the background, who didn't take up space, who'd learned to make herself smaller and quieter until she practically disappeared?
How Invisibility Creeps Up On You
It's not like there's one dramatic moment where you suddenly become invisible. It's a slow erosion, like the sea wearing away at a cliff. A thousand tiny moments where you're overlooked, dismissed, or simply not seen.
Your kids stop asking your opinion because they're too busy with their own lives. Your partner looks at their phone while you're talking. Shop assistants serve other people first. Your ideas at work get credited to someone else. Social invitations dry up because you're "probably busy" or "wouldn't be interested."
And the worst part? You start believing it. You start thinking maybe you don't have anything interesting to contribute. Maybe your best days really are behind you. Maybe this is just what happens when you reach a certain age - you fade into the background and accept it.
I'd stopped putting my hand up for things. Stopped expressing opinions. Stopped taking risks or trying new things. What was the point? Nobody was watching anyway. Nobody cared what the invisible middle-aged woman thought or did.
The Prison of Not Being Seen
I dressed to blend in rather than stand out. Chose safe over interesting. Said "I'm fine" when I wasn't. Laughed off comments about my age. Made myself smaller in conversations, in photographs, in life. I'd mastered the art of not being a bother, not taking up too much space, not demanding attention or recognition.
The prison had rules I'd internalised without even realising:
Don't be too loud (you're embarrassing)
Don't try too hard (you're desperate)
Don't have big dreams (you're too old)
Don't take risks (you'll fail)
Don't expect too much (you'll be disappointed)
So, I didn't. I stayed small, stayed quiet, stayed invisible. And part of me died a little more each day.
The Moment Everything Changed
I can't pinpoint the exact moment I decided I was done with being invisible, but it was somewhere around feeling so low I barely recognized myself anymore. It was either sink or swim, ironically enough.
Then my daughter asked if I wanted to do a Half Ironman with her, and something inside me (that I thought had vanished years ago) suddenly sat up and paid attention. It was ridiculous. It was impossible. Swim. Bike. Run. Me? It was completely reckless for someone like me.
And that's exactly why I said yes.
Because what did I have to lose? I was already invisible. If I failed spectacularly, who would even notice? The invisible woman attempting something visible - there was a certain poetry to it, even if it was probably tragic poetry.
Becoming Visible Again
Training for that first Half Ironman didn't just change my body - it changed how I moved through the world. Suddenly, I was taking up space again. In the pool before sunrise, I was there, present, visible. On my bike, wearing ridiculous shoes and Lycra, I was impossible to miss. Running through town in my training gear, I existed. I felt like someone.
People started noticing me again, but more importantly, I started noticing myself. I had opinions about training plans, nutrition strategies, equipment choices. I had goals that excited me. I had challenges that scared me. I had a reason to get up in the morning that was entirely mine.
The invisibility started cracking. In meetings, I spoke up more. With friends, I returned to the fun, chatty me. With my family, I set boundaries about my training time being non-negotiable. I stopped apologising for taking up space.
You're Not Invisible - You're Just Not Looking
Here's what I learned. I was never actually invisible. I'd just stopped showing up. I'd stopped believing I was worth seeing. I'd accepted other people's limitations as my reality.
The moment I decided to do something that scared me, something that demanded I be present and visible and completely impossible to ignore, everything changed. Not because the world suddenly decided middle-aged women mattered - but because I decided I mattered.
You're not invisible either. You might feel like you are. You might have convinced yourself that your best years are behind you, that nobody's interested in what you have to offer, that it's too late to want more from life.
But you're wrong. You're not invisible - you're just not looking at yourself properly. You're seeing what society tells you to see instead of what's actually there. A woman with decades of experience, strength you haven't even tapped into yet, and the potential to surprise yourself in ways you can't imagine.
Breaking Out of the Prison
Getting visible again doesn't require a Half Ironman (though I highly recommend it). It requires deciding you're worth the effort. Worth the risk. Worth being seen, even if being seen means being judged or criticised or failing publicly.
Start small if you need to. Speak up in that meeting, wear the bright colour instead of beige, say no to something you don't want to do, say yes to something that scares you. Each small act of visibility chips away at the prison walls.
The invisibility was comfortable in its own way. Safe. Predictable. But it was also killing me slowly, and I almost didn't notice until it was nearly too late.
If you're reading this and thinking "that's me, I've become invisible," then high five - you've just taken the first step to being seen again. Because invisible women don't recognise themselves in these words. But you did. Which means part of you is still fighting to be visible.
That part is right. Listen to her. She's trying to save your life.
Your invisibility isn't permanent unless you let it be. The prison door was never locked - you just forgot to check.