Invisible Woman

More thoughts spilling on paper. Or screen.

Sundaze Book Café is the home of everyday magic, joyful living and conversations likely to be had over a hot drink with a friend in your favourite café, capturing the syrup-slow feel and glow of a Sunday. I’m Michelle, and I’ll be your host this Sunday.

I’ve had a hard time recently, grappling with being seen and unseen, heard and unheard. It started with the motion lights at the office, turning off as I walked beneath them. Then, it was a car nearly crashing into me at the roundabout, not giving way to me, headlights clearly on, who also had right of way. Next, it was my maybe-funny-maybe-not quip at the lunch table, quietly dissolving amidst the noise. Finally, it was a message about something personal, sent into the group chat only to be glossed over in favour for idle gossip about somebody we once knew (I’ve since left).

Am I… invisible?

The thing is, I am. I was a perennially shy kid at primary school: I didn’t understand a jot of English and didn’t want to draw attention to myself for it, since I was already ‘different’ and having to take extra classes to get my English up to scratch. But, this meant that the other children were forming friendships while us three non-native English speakers squirrelled away in the library. On reflection, this experience was a formative moment for me – I might’ve stayed invisible ever since.

As a woman, it’s been hard to achieve the platforms of an average white man. It’s difficult to be taken seriously in a professional setting. In fact, it’s all too easy to be overlooked, spoken over, or forgotten about completely. As a British-born Chinese woman… It’s even worse. I can watch a whole week of TV in England and not see a single person that looks like me (although, shoutout to Yin who survived 46 minutes on The Traitors!). I have had one manager that was a Chinese woman (although, we were in Hong Kong). I can talk until the cows come home about the microaggressions and racism I experience so often (and have them completely watered down so it feels like it’s my fault I’m walked into on pavements or yelled slurs at in the streets).

Am I… invisible?

Everywhere I look, I’m reminded that I’m invisible and that I probably don’t really matter in the bigger picture. And it manifests in other ways too. Online, I watched as my blogging peers soared in popularity and snagged incredible opportunities, while I was once mistaken for a waitress by the PR exec who invited me to the event. I scroll through ‘Trending’ feeds on Instagram, Pinterest or even Tumblr to be met with a sea of white women in various trending aesthetics, knowing I’m probably not a vanilla girl, soft girl, clean girl or any other fleeting trend. I just exist quietly on the sidelines, hoping for a moment to show that I’m really here. I’m really here.

When I write, I come alive. Here – in my journals, on my blog, right here on Substack – I exist through paragraphs of words I penned and sometimes resonate with even just one reader. It doesn’t matter that I float from corner to corner of the globe, wondering whether they see me; literally or figuratively. Even though the motion sensors or drivers or ‘friends’ don’t see me, the words do.

The words always do.