Tag: writing

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The Art of Showing Up When You Feel Invisible

It’s one thing to be tired. It’s another thing to feel invisible.

Lately, I’ve been doing everything I know how to do. I’m posting, building, creating, and showing up. Still, it feels like I’m operating just outside the edges of everyone’s attention. I keep doing the work, but none of it quite lands. I keep hoping something will catch. The silence is louder than anything I’ve made.

It’s not about applause. It never really has been. But when you give so much of yourself, including your time, energy, and creativity, and the return is minimal at best, it’s hard not to feel like you’re fading into the background.

When everything feels stuck

I’ve hit a plateau in more ways than one.

The scale won’t move, even though I’ve been putting in the effort. My income hasn’t changed much, despite months of work across two businesses. Mentally, I feel like I’m moving through fog.

There’s also the noise that comes from being surrounded by people with big personalities. The ones who take up space without noticing anyone else in the room. They speak first. They speak loudest. Somehow, they’re always the ones being heard. I’m still here, trying to build something real and steady, but it feels like I’m constantly being overlooked.

It’s draining. Not because I expect the spotlight, but because I’m tired of having to work so hard just to be seen at all.

Still moving

Even with all of this, I haven’t stopped. It’s not because I’m feeling hopeful. It’s just what I do.

I still get up. I still write posts. I still plan bakery menus. I still share tools, create content, and show up for a job that pays the bills, even if it isn’t the one I want forever.

An old advisor once told me to get up, dress up, and show up. It stuck with me, not because it was deep, but because it’s something I can still manage. Even on the days when everything else feels out of reach, I can still do that.

Most days, that has to be enough.

There’s no bow on this

This isn’t the moment where everything changes. There are no breakthroughs here. Just something honest.

I’m tired. I’m working hard. I’m doing what I can. Right now, it doesn’t feel like it’s being met with much in return.

But I’m still here. I’m still creating. I’m still planting seeds, even though I won’t see them bloom for a while.

That isn’t failure. It’s just the part of the process people don’t talk about.

A little borrowed peace

There’s a quote I’ve been holding onto.
“Worrying doesn’t take away tomorrow’s troubles. It takes away today’s peace.”

Peace feels rare lately. I don’t want to keep giving it away just because I’m afraid that my work isn’t paying off fast enough. So I’m trying to let myself rest in the doing. Even when no one claps. Even when the numbers don’t move. Even when the progress is invisible to everyone but me.

What to do when you’re in this place

If this feels familiar, if you’re in a stretch where you’re doing the work and still feel invisible, I hope you’ll pause for a second. Acknowledge how heavy it all feels. Then keep going with whatever’s in front of you.

Here’s what’s been helping me:

  • Keep a done list. Don’t track what you didn’t finish. Track what you did. Let it add up.
  • Turn down the noise. Log out. Mute people. Unfollow accounts. Do what helps you hear yourself again.
  • Make something just for you. Don’t post it. Don’t monetize it. Just make it because it feels good.
  • Finish one small thing. One task. One piece of progress. One win you can hold onto.

You don’t need to feel visible to be valuable. You don’t need to be noticed to be strong. You are allowed to keep building quietly.

And if all you did today was continue, that counts.

xoxo
-S

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I Miss Her Sometimes (But I Don’t Want Her Back)

There’s a version of me I miss.
Not in a soft, sentimental way. I’m not scrolling through old photos, sighing over who I used to be. It’s more like an ache that creeps in when the house is too quiet, or the bills are piling up, or I’m halfway through my third mental spiral of the morning.

I miss the girl who didn’t know how tired she would eventually become.
I miss the version of me who woke up without dread. Who thought she had all the time in the world. Who thought things were hard, but had no idea what was coming. I miss her unshakable belief that things were going to work out just because she wanted them to.

She wasn’t naïve. Not entirely. She was smart. Capable. Driven when she needed to be. But she lived like the world still revolved around her, and in some ways, that was beautiful. There was power in it. Her sense of self wasn’t perfect, but it was intact. She had style, momentum, and that kind of direction that doesn’t always come from logic. It came from gut instinct and blind optimism. She didn’t have it all figured out, but she believed she would eventually.

Now, I don’t believe in eventuals. I believe in scraping things together. I believe in bracing for impact. I believe in trying to build something better without any real guarantee that it’ll ever become what I need it to be. And that’s not defeatist. That’s just what happens when you’ve been burned enough to know better.

What she didn’t know, and what I do now, is how quickly time turns into a resource you’re constantly chasing. She had energy to burn and didn’t even notice she was spending it. She made money during a golden hour of opportunity and didn’t understand the privilege in that. She poured herself into relationships, convinced that being everything for everyone would mean she was needed, wanted, safe. She thought if she handled enough, carried enough, gave enough, she would eventually be taken care of too.

I’d give anything to sit that girl down and tell her to stop.
To stop breaking herself into pieces for people who would never offer her the same.
To stop assuming love has to be earned through self-abandonment.
To stop confusing productivity with worth.

I’d tell her to put herself first. Not because it’s empowering or trendy, but because she’s the only constant she’s ever going to have.

She spent so much time chasing someone else’s definition of adulthood. Marriage. Kids. A house. The image of having it all together. She never stopped to question if she actually wanted that life. She thought being responsible meant chasing stability, even if the stability wasn’t hers. Even if it came at the cost of her peace. And once she realized that all those things she was killing herself to create weren’t going to happen, or weren’t going to be enough when they did, there wasn’t some big reckoning or transformation. There was just exhaustion.

The girl I was didn’t have it all. But she had something I don’t. Energy. Belief. Forward motion. She didn’t doubt herself at every turn. She didn’t feel guilty for existing. She didn’t constantly question whether she was doing enough, being enough, or falling behind. She got overwhelmed, sure, but she still thought she could climb out of it.

That’s the part I miss the most.

But here’s the thing. I don’t want her back.

I’ve lost things I can’t get back, but I’ve also walked away from things that were never mine to begin with. Jobs that drained me. Friendships that only survived on my effort. Relationships that blurred the line between love and obligation. I’ve learned that just because something is familiar doesn’t mean it’s worth clinging to. Just because someone wants you doesn’t mean they see you. Just because something looks good on paper doesn’t mean it won’t kill your joy.

I can’t say I feel proud of everything I’ve done since letting her go.
I’m still clawing my way toward a version of life that feels like it fits.
But I do know more now.
I know that the only person responsible for holding me together is me.
I know that stability isn’t something you find. It’s something you build slowly, quietly, without applause.
I know that peace matters more than appearances.

I still miss the mornings when I woke up excited for the day, when my world felt small enough to manage and wide enough to dream. I miss the freedom that came with working from home, having a little land, some chickens, a routine that didn’t leave me feeling depleted. I miss the fire I used to have. I want some of that back, but I want it on my terms this time.

Because I’m not trying to be her again.
I’m trying to take what she had that was good and build something stronger out of it.
Something quieter. Something mine.

This time, I won’t waste it trying to prove my worth.
This time, I’ll invest in myself the way no one else ever did.

She didn’t know yet.
But I do now.
And I’m not going to forget it.

If there’s a version of you that you miss too, one that felt braver, louder, softer, freer, I hope you know she’s not gone. Not really. You don’t have to go back to her. But maybe you can borrow a little of her fire while you build something she never even dreamed of.

You don’t owe anyone a full-circle story. Just keep going.
You’re allowed to miss her and still outgrow her.

xoxo
-S

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Gratitude and the Ghosts I Carry

I’m going through something right now.

It’s not the kind of something you can tie up in a punchline or smooth over with a filtered selfie and a good caption. It’s the kind of something that sits in your throat, too heavy to swallow, too stubborn to spit out. The kind that makes you want to cancel everything and also say yes to anything that might distract you from it. I filmed a video already; I talk more about it there. But I haven’t been ready to let it out in writing until now. Maybe not even now. Maybe this is just the pressure valve hissing open because I’ve been holding it in too long.

This morning I saw an image, just a throwaway post on someone’s story. One of those things you scroll past a hundred times a day. But it stopped me cold:

“No amount of regret changes the past. No amount of anxiety changes the future. But any amount of gratitude changes the present.”

I don’t believe in signs most days. I believe in algorithms, and caffeine dependency, and making the best of what’s rotting in the fridge. But this hit like a reminder I didn’t know I’d asked for. Like someone whispering through the noise, pay attention.

Because regret and anxiety are the monsters I know best. Regret follows me like a shadow. It creeps in after the conversation ends. After the silence stretches too long. After the decision is made. It sounds like, You should have known better. You should have done more. You should have seen this coming. It’s not just about the big moments either. It’s about all the tiny ones. The split seconds where I didn’t speak up. The days I didn’t take care of myself. The years I spent twisting myself into shapes to be more palatable, less much.

Anxiety, on the other hand, is loud. It doesn’t creep. It crashes. It’s that buzz under my skin, that hum in my brain that never quite lets me rest. It’s the panic of not knowing what comes next, and the certainty that it won’t be good. It makes me flinch at the future like it’s a fist about to swing. It whispers about failure and financial ruin and being forgotten. It tells me I’m running out of time. That I’ve already wasted too much.

So between those two, regret dragging behind me and anxiety pulling ahead, I rarely feel like I’m anywhere solid. Just suspended between what I can’t fix and what I can’t control.

And then there’s that last line:
“Any amount of gratitude changes the present.”
And I want to roll my eyes at it. I want to dismiss it like I do most platitudes. But I can’t. Because there’s something true in it, and truth doesn’t need to shout to be real.

Gratitude is quiet. It doesn’t erase anything. It doesn’t overwrite the damage or scrub out the scars. But it does anchor me, even if only for a second. It pulls me out of the loop. It gives me something to touch.
Right now. Not someday. Not what was. But this.

And the truth is, I haven’t been doing a good job of being here lately. I’ve been somewhere else entirely. I’ve been in the hospital room that still haunts me. I’ve been on the couch where I numbed out for months. I’ve been in the mirror, picking myself apart. I’ve been in the future, catastrophizing every possible path, convinced none of them end well.

But gratitude says, stop. Just for a moment.

Look around.
There’s a dog sleeping with her paw over her nose.
There’s hot coffee cooling too fast but still comforting.
There’s your body, still trying, still waking up every morning, even after you’ve cursed it and failed it and apologized to it and cursed it again.
There’s the ridiculous fact that in the middle of everything crumbling, someone still said “I love you” and meant it.
There’s breath. There’s sweat. There’s music.
There’s you. Still here.

And that doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t make the grief go away. It doesn’t make the money show up or the fear disappear or the trauma untangle itself. But it’s something. It’s a rope. And right now, that might be enough.

I don’t have a clean ending for this post. No tidy resolution. No three-step plan.
I’m still deep in it. Still clawing my way toward whatever the next version of me looks like.

But I’m grateful you’re here, reading this.
I’m grateful I have words, even when I don’t want to use them.
I’m grateful for the click of the keyboard and the low hum of the heater and the fact that, despite it all, I haven’t stopped showing up for myself, even in the smallest of ways.

That’s where I’m living right now. In the small. In the barely-there gratitude. In the tiny flickers of light that remind me I’m not done yet.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

xoxo
-S

P.S. – Dare I ask – should I create a shadow work series/workbook? What do you think?