By Zerin Tasneem
I have lived my life with my feet planted firmly but just to the left of center – close enough to be remembered but never close enough to be remembered. Some people get to grow up hearing that they are stars. I grew up hearing that I was “helpful.” That’s what people say when they can’t quite put into words what you have done but know that you have been there.
At times, I wonder what it would be like to be someone people turn to without thinking. Someone whose jokes people find funny. Someone whose ideas people value. Someone whose presence makes a difference. I have never been that person. I have always been in the dark corner. I have always been the shadow that shows the light works.
The thing that still puzzles me is that I appear not to be doing anything wrong on the outside. I participate in conversations, I appear with groups, and I work hard-not loudly or dramatically but consistently. But once recognition dawns, I become as invisible as a stone sucked down by a river. Everyone claps for the voice that rings out the loudest, for the bold leader, and for the person standing center stage as if it were all theirs. And I, who have kept it all together, become invisible.
I first noticed it wasn’t an accident during a project. I put my all into it, researching, refining, and correcting tiny details that no one else caught. During the presentations, my classmates talked proudly about “their” concepts and “their” data. Not once was my name mentioned. The teacher praised them and turned a blind eye to me. I still recall standing there with my backpack slung over my shoulder, feeling as if I had ceased to exist.
The thing about it, though, was that I was already accustomed.
My friends do not see me. I am the one who listens to problems, who shows up when they are needed, who remembers birthdays, and who carries extra pens. But I am not who they turn to when it’s time to celebrate. I am never on the first list. The appreciation goes to whoever is loud.
Even within my own family, I remain invisible. It’s not that they intentionally overlook me. It’s just that they don’t notice me as I attempt. They talk about my brother and sister, listening with rapt attention as they share what’s happening. As for me, I am “the reliable one” on whose shoulders responsibilities rest silently. I sometimes wonder if they would even miss me before they missed something I do for them. And whenever I tried to complain about my feelings, I felt like an attention seeker.
Invisibility isn’t a moment; it’s a pattern
But still, I try. I still care, even as it doesn’t often come back to me. There’s a voice within me yearning for visibility-to be recognized as someone who matters. But there’s also a voice within me that’s more reserved and more seasoned, and it’s grown accustomed to not being seen. Perhaps it withdraws without intention. Possibly, being invisible becomes a form of shelter.
But something changed recently. During yet another group project, after everyone took credit, a quiet student came up to me and whispered, “I know nobody said it, but you were the reason it worked. I witnessed what you were doing.”
It took just one sentence. It was soft. But it lit something inside me.
It brought back memories that what is invisible to everyone does not remain invisible to everyone.
I began to question visibility. It’s a fact that society celebrates mountains—the biggest, noisiest, and most visible ones. But mountains are visible only because the earth around them remains constant. The valley, slope, and ridges are what make it visible. Otherwise, mountains will be mere rocks.
My worth isn’t diminished because people are unable to define it.
Some efforts don’t bring applause – they bring impact. Some presences aren’t loud – they’re foundational.
I still have moments when I want recognition and get hurt when I’m not noticed. But I’m learning that my worth isn’t based on who recognizes it. I have worth even if no one recognizes it. I make value even if no one pays any mind.
I am learning to be strong without requiring a spotlight. Thus, here begins my confession: I have been the background character for most of the storylines in my own life, invisible and unremarkable. But being invisible has taught me that meaning can be made within silence, and value doesn’t have to be measured in volume. I am still here. Perhaps I don’t have to be the mountain itself. Perhaps I am the landscape that makes the mountain possible.