Invisible Until Essential - On Feeling Invisible at Home

She is always there. That's the problem.

Why being taken for granted at home cuts deeper than we admit...

Funny how the same voice that earns respect in boardrooms barely registers at home.

As an investor, a lawyer, and someone who has spent years navigating complexity — people seek out my perspective. They invite me into rooms for what I might say. They quote me. They listen.

And yet, at home, I’m mostly just… background noise.

The Loneliness of Being Useful

I have come to realise this is what feeling invisible at home looks like - I am invisible — until essential. Most of the time, I am the quiet infrastructure holding everything together : Groceries. School forms. Medical refills. Birthday reminders. Travel bookings. All the details no one sees until they’re missed.

But that effort is silent. Until someone is late, or lost, or unwell, or suddenly overwhelmed — and then I’m expected to know, fix, solve. And I do. I always do. Because not showing up would feel like betrayal.

Work as Redemption

This is why work — and friendships — matter more than people realise. Because in those spaces, I am not just a crisis response system. I am valued for my thinking before things fall apart. In those rooms, people listen the first time.

That simple act — of being heard — rebuilds self-esteem in ways no title ever could.

When your voice is constantly dismissed in the space that’s supposed to feel safest, you start to doubt your own volume.

The Silence at Home

Friends text me just to talk. Colleagues schedule time to connect. People I barely know want to grab a coffee or pick my brain.

And then there’s home.

Where I spend most of the day alone — quietly moving from task to task — while everyone else disappears into school, work, their own routines.

Evenings come, and I find myself asking for time. Sometimes begging for it.

A walk, a shared meal, a simple conversation — not much. Just presence.

But it’s rarely convenient. Everyone’s too tired, too distracted, too “done” for the day. And I get it. I understand.

But understanding doesn’t make the silence easier.

I crave someone to ask how my day was. Someone to listen — really listen — to the conversations that have been living in my head all day.

Instead, I often stay quiet. Not because I have nothing to say. But because I have tried — many times before. And the moment I start speaking, I see attention fade. So I let it go.

What would I even say?

Probably something small — like an update about the house helper. Something that weighs on me but sounds trivial to them.

But when I begin, I’m often cut off with a “not now” or “I don’t have the energy for this”.

So who do I share it with?

I am not asking for help. I’m not even asking for advice. I am capable of handling things. I do handle things. All I ask for is a patient ear.

Shouldn’t Home Be the Place That Sees You First?

That’s the part that stays with me.

We spend so much of our lives trying to be heard, respected, acknowledged — and yet, shouldn’t home be the one place where we never have to ask for that?

Yes — my family loves me. Fiercely. They are my biggest cheerleaders, my anchors.

But in the quiet, mundane rhythm of everyday life, that love gets muffled. Not out of malice — just out of habit.

Being taken for granted isn’t the same as being unloved. But it is a kind of erasure. And some days, it leaves a mark.

Maybe that’s why so many women in midlife feel this quiet rebellion rising. Not to leave. Not to abandon. But to break out of the smallness we’ve been folded into.

To reclaim visibility. To be more than the background. To be seen — fully — not just when needed, but because we exist.

P.S. This isn’t a complaint — and it’s certainly not about being unloved. It’s about the quiet ways we become invisible in the places that matter most. I hesitated to share this — not because it isn’t true, but because truth can be misunderstood. This isn’t the whole picture — just one moment, one layer of a much bigger life that holds laughter, love, and joy too. But this part needed words. And maybe, someone else needed to read them.