Invisible but Healing: A Real Look at Motherhood, Scars, and Growth

Invisible, Until I’m Not

I walk through life like a ghost, half-convinced no one can really see me. I know how strange that sounds, but I find comfort in being a wallflower. I don’t want the spotlight. I’m happiest in the background—observing, having my thoughts, writing about them. Which is ironic, considering I long for things like love, appreciation, and gratitude… all of which require a bit of attention.

It’s a confusing mix. I don’t want to be overlooked. I think that is safe to say. But I definitely don’t want to be the center of attention. I’m also just fine if no one knows my name. I like blending in. Being invisible suits me. Sure, I want people to enjoy my writing and feel connected here, but out in the world? No thanks. Let me dissolve into the scenery.

Compliments are the worst. When someone says something kind (especially about my looks) to me, I can feel myself turning inward. The spotlight might as well be a shotgun—it’s that uncomfortable. I won’t unpack my entire childhood here. Let’s just say I was never made to feel especially okay with this kind of thing. To this day, oversized sweatshirts are my armor. I’ll wear jeans in 100-degree weather just to stay hidden.

I know I’m not ugly. But I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to be admired or called “special or pretty.” It makes me squirm. The only person I tolerate those words from is my husband, and that’s taken years to be okay with. His compliments used to make me want to crawl out of my own skin. Touch was even harder. Let’s just say… personal space was vulnerable territory for a long time.

Now here comes this new trend—“pick me girl.” If you’re unfamiliar, it refers to a girl who seeks attention and validation, especially from men. So girls might go out of their way to get a compliment and act like they didn’t want it.

My daughter, the queen of trendy phrases, throws this one at me anytime I brush off a compliment. “You’re being such a ‘pick me’ right now!” she says with a grin.

Oh, please. Girl, hush! We look exactly alike—you’re just a more confident version of me! She is more blessed than she knows!

She’s grown up hearing she’s beautiful her entire life. And she is. We tell her every day. We raise her with love, encourage her, and believe in her. I didn’t have that. I was raised in a home with bullies and many hardships, and I still carry those scars. Now, I’ve got a teenage doppelganger calling me out for behaviors rooted in wounds she’ll never fully understand. Can a girl catch a break?

There are pieces of my past I’ve healed. Others I’ve locked away. Some pain is just too close to the surface—too raw. It still gets bumped, bruised, and reopened. I hate to say it, but I bleed all over. I hate when people see it. And maybe these parts always will be there. But I have found healing through my children. I made a different choice: to build them up, support, and practice the pause because they are frustrated sometimes, but it passes. My kids may not get it, but that’s actually a good thing. They’re growing up free from wounds and scars, at least ones that are like mine. I know we have some.

I’m not a perfect mom. Or wife. I’ve failed plenty. I’ve yelled when I should’ve listened. I’ve shut down when I should’ve opened up. But I’ve also loved them with everything I’ve got. I hope, when they’re older, they’ll see the good along with the bad—the things I got right.

I carry my own bruises, but I can see now that my parents had their own pain. Their burdens don’t excuse what they did or didn’t do, but I get it now—being a parent is brutal sometimes. Still, I wonder if they ever paused in the middle of the chaos, the sleepless nights, the endless noise, and thought… God, thank You.

I know I do. Even when I’m exhausted, even when my feelings are raw and someone’s been unkind, I pray that prayer. “Thank You for these kids. For this roof. For love. For hugs. For their trust, even after I mess up.”

Kids can be mean. So can adults. None of us are perfect.

Let me be clear—I’m not here to bash anyone. I love my parents. I love my kids. I know I still have my own work to do. But that deep place inside me—the part that’s wounded and raw—it’s also where my best parenting comes from.

My daughter and I? We’re close. Thick as thieves. She’s bold, clever, wild, and learning where the lines are. She challenges me. It makes me flinch! She does things that would have had me looking for a new place to sleep and maybe my teeth! She strikes nerves I didn’t know were still exposed. But she is fiercely kind, loyal, and full of fire. Even when she gets it wrong, her love is loud.

And through raising her, I’m healing things I never thought I would. She triggers me, sure. But she also redeems parts of my story without even knowing it.

We’re all doing better—even the generations before us. Maybe that’s the whole point. Life was never promised to be easy, but we’re growing through the pain. We’re treating each other with more grace than we used to, and that’s something. I’m genuinely proud of my parents for the healing they’ve done, for how far they’ve come. I’m proud of my husband and myself too—for how we’ve fought to break old cycles. It hasn’t been easy. It still isn’t. But look at us—we’re making progress. Me and mine, we’re coming along just fine. And that, to me, is healing.

SK-