The Invisible Years; Notes from the other side of fifty"I’ve fallen, burned out, and come undone. But like a phoenix, I’ve risen every time."

Somewhere between forty and now, I started to disappear.

Not in a dramatic, “lost at sea” kind of way, just gradually and quietly. Like condensation on a window, there, then not.

I live on the Gold Coast, arguably the capital of Botox in Australia, if you don’t have filler, lashes, or a tight new jawline, you start to feel like a walking before photo. Everyone is wrinkle-free, plumped-up, and permanently filtered. Even a quick trip to the shops can feel like stepping onto a stage you weren’t dressed for.

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking it. Good for them. Truly, but when you’re over fifty, tired, and just trying to buy bread in your jeans and a top, you start to wonder if you’ve somehow aged out of visibility, like you missed a memo or a syringe.

Shop assistants hand the receipt to the younger woman next to me. People overlook me in queues. No one asks where I got my shoes anymore and strangely, that’s not what hurts the most. What hurts is that I started believing I’d disappeared too.

There was a time when I filled space, without thinking, without shrinking, without softening my edges. I wore colour. Laughed too loud. Took selfies without filters. Now I find myself stepping aside, keeping quiet, asking for less.

And the body, let’s talk about that, shall we? I never really carried weight when I was younger.

My body just did what I wanted it to. I didn’t think about food or clothes or how things fit, they just did. But now? Now it’s a daily negotiation, a battle between what I know and how I feel between self-acceptance and the bloody mirror.

I look at my reflection and see a softer, heavier, older version of who I once was. The jawline’s not as sharp; the waist has vanished under layers of life. Clothes fit differently and photos get deleted before they can be posted. I turn sideways in shop windows and wince. Some days I catch myself and think, bloody hell, I look like a Mildred.

And not the glamorous kind, the full-blown Yootha Joyce in George and Mildred version.

Big hair with no plan, a slightly exasperated expression, and the attitude of a woman who’s been dealing with idiots for decades.

She wasn’t sad. Far from it. She ruled that house with a withering stare and a sharp tongue. Poor George could do nothing right, and she let him know it. There’s something about that energy I admire, other days, I talk to her in the mirror and say, not yet, love. We’ve still got fire.

And I’ve got a whole shoe cabinet full of expensive high heels, fierce, fabulous, outrageously impractical. There’s the pair of Manolo’s I bought in London, classic, black and silver boots, so sharp they could slice through glass. I remember standing in that boutique, heart pounding, thinking, these are mine.

And the glittery stilettos from New York, bought on a night when the city made me feel like anything was possible. I wore them once to a party where no one knew my name, but I felt like the main character anyway.

And I know, deep down, there is no chance on this earth I’ll ever wear them again. Still, I can’t quite let them go. Not yet. They’re more than shoes. They’re souvenirs of who I was; bold, reckless, full of story.

Echoes of nights out, of feeling noticed, of a younger me who still believed the world was watching. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to say goodbye, to unhook the sentiment from the stilettos and give them a new home but not today. Today they stay, quietly gathering dust, like the parts of me I’m still learning to release.

And it’s not just about age. Maybe it’s about being a woman in a world that worships youth and novelty, where the currency is tight skin and fresh starts. And what do you do when you’re neither? You become practical, invisible in sensible shoes, efficient in stretch denim. You show up. You get through it. You don’t complain. You carry your own weight emotionally, mentally, sometimes literally, and most people don’t even notice.

You speak to yourself softly when no one else does.

You say things like:

I can do hard things.

I am still here.

I’ve survived worse.

This feeling will pass.

I’m allowed to take up space.

I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.

I am enough, even like this.

Sometimes they’re whispered through gritted teeth. Sometimes they feel strong and true. Other times, they’re just something to hold onto while the world moves around you. And sometimes, in the middle of all that holding it together, you forget to hold yourself.

But here’s the thing I’m learning. In between the sighs and the sagging and the softness, I’m still here. I have stories that would stop you in your tracks. I’ve lived more lives than I let on. I’ve fallen hard, burned out, and come undone. But like a phoenix, I have risen from the ashes more times than I can count. A little scorched, maybe, but stronger each time. There is power in that. A quiet, unruly power that doesn’t need permission to exist.

I may not turn heads anymore, but I can damn well raise them and if I’m going to be invisible, then I’ll be the kind of invisible that moves mountains in silence because I see me and that’s a start.