The Girl Who Learned to Disappear
Before I learned how to take up space, I learned how to vanish.
I was a scared, wallflower child—careful, quiet, and watchful. Somewhere early on, I absorbed the lesson that it was safer to be unheard. Speaking up felt dangerous. Standing out felt unbearable. And yet, no matter how hard I tried to blend in, I seemed to stick out anyway.
Children noticed. They always do. I was teased, made fun of, singled out for something—sometimes obvious, sometimes not. I carried that embarrassment with me everywhere, like a second skin. I walked through my days hoping no one would notice me, while secretly aching to be noticed, chosen, included.
What I wanted most was simple: to belong.
I wanted to be part of the crowd, the clique, the group that seemed to move through life with ease and permission. I didn’t feel like I had a purpose of my own—only the hope that if I could help, maybe I could earn my place. That’s why, even as a child, I gravitated toward helping others.
In 1968, at Goleta Union Grade School in Goleta, California, I found a small pocket where I felt useful. I helped children from the special needs classroom transition back into their regular classes. There, I succeeded. There, I mattered—at least in action, if not yet in feeling. I didn’t recognize it then, but even in my fear, compassion was already guiding me.
Still, inside, the story I told myself was harsh and unrelenting.
I believed I was unworthy of attention. No matter where I went, I felt like an outsider looking in. I was relentlessly critical of myself, convinced everyone else was better, more deserving, more lovable. I longed to be part of a community, a group, something bigger than myself—but I couldn’t imagine that I truly belonged anywhere.
People cared about me. I know that now. But back then, I couldn’t feel it. Love didn’t land. It didn’t register. I didn’t understand that I was loved until I was well into my sixties.
When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see a child. I saw flaws. I saw a skinny, awkward, big-nosed girl who believed no one cared and no one ever would. My communication felt broken. Words got stuck. My voice felt unsafe. Talking felt risky.
Existing felt risky.
So I learned to shrink. To stay quiet. To observe instead of participate. To survive by staying small.
What I didn’t know then—what I couldn’t possibly know—was that this frightened, unseen child was not weak. She was enduring. She was learning. And she was carrying within her the seeds of empathy, service, and depth that would one day become her strength.
This is who I was before I transformed.
Not broken—just unseen.
Not unlovable—just unaware.
Not empty—just waiting.
