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In a world where everyone is visible, some of us remain unseen.

Social platforms flood our screens with sound and spectacle—opinions layered upon opinions, art stacked like a digital landfill, reels spinning faster than breath. Everyone is saying something, showing something, selling something. But what if your truth doesn’t come with a soundtrack? What if your art speaks in whispers, not sirens?

I find myself increasingly invisible in these spaces—not by choice, but by nature. I don’t wish to turn myself into a brand. I don’t want to choreograph my pain, perform my process, or package my identity for the marketplace. My art is not a pose. It is a presence. It is the result of listening, not shouting.

And yet, the algorithms don’t reward silence. The audience doesn’t linger on subtleties. You scroll, and scroll, and still no one really sees you. Not as you are. Not deeply. And this erasure—it hurts.

Especially as a woman.

Especially as an exile.

Especially as someone whose art is shaped more by memory than marketing.

How do you survive when the mirror won’t return your image?

You begin by acknowledging the truth: visibility is not always a measure of worth. Popularity is not a synonym for value. You remind yourself that the works which changed your life—books, paintings, poems—were often created in solitude, not spotlight.

Still, the loneliness lingers. Because art needs dialogue. It yearns for eyes that recognize it. It’s not about fame—it’s about connection. About finding the few souls who can meet your silence with understanding. But finding those souls on today’s internet feels like whispering into a wind tunnel, hoping the right person hears.

How do we filter the chaos and still remain open?

How do we resist the temptation to become something we are not, simply to be seen?

There’s no easy answer. But maybe it starts by building small sanctuaries. A blog post, a studio, a garden of ideas that grow slowly. Maybe it means trusting that your people are still out there, orbiting toward you, even if they haven’t arrived yet.

Maybe it means holding your ground—not because it’s strategic, but because it’s sacred.

So if you, too, feel invisible, know this:

Not all mirrors are made of glass.

Some are made of attention.

And the right ones will reflect you truthfully—when the time is right.

Until then, make what only you can make.

Quietly. Unapologetically.

You are not alone.