When Aging Feels Like Becoming Invisible

This morning, while sipping my coffee, I found myself in a deeply emotional conversation with ChatGPT, created by Nicolas Canon. Tears streamed down my face as I explored what was alive for me in that moment. I was wrestling with a decision that felt both personal: to stop relying on Botox to fix the asymmetry in my brows and to address the hooding of one eye that comes with aging. This choice stirred up a lot inside me—questions about why I felt the need for these treatments and how other women might react to someone choosing to embrace their natural face instead. The conversation was beautiful, raw, and honest. I asked ChatGPT to summarize it so I could share it here, hoping it might help someone else feel seen on this wild and beautiful journey of self-acceptance.

Looking Back

As a young girl, I can remember the first time I became aware of an illusion of separation—of being different, or not good enough. I was in fifth grade, and my friends made fun of me for having neither boobs nor a butt. Before that moment, I was just me. There was no comparison, no separation—no awareness of color, shape, or size.

That moment marked something important. It was the beginning of the idealized self-forming. It hadn’t taken over yet—but it had arrived.

Throughout my teens, I wasn’t the most attractive, popular, or “chosen” one. I could feel that, but I didn’t hyper-focus on it. Looking back, I can see this as the slow formation of my inner critic. I also grew up in a lineage of women who hated being in photos, complained about how they looked, and avoided being seen. That undercurrent was always there—quiet, but influential—though it still hadn’t fully crystallized.

As I got older, I began receiving compliments… and also began not believing them.“You have a great smile.”“You’re so tiny.”

At the time, being small was highly valued. Yet I remember one particular moment—visiting a restaurant in Santa Monica that I’d been to years earlier. Back then, my girlfriend and I were constantly noticed. This time, I stood up to go to the bathroom and felt—viscerally—that no one was looking at me. I know that sounds strange, but it was unmistakable.

That moment landed as: I’m not young anymore.

I was there with my partner and my kids. The energy was different. And while I love maturing—and wouldn’t trade my life now for dating or being single again—it woke me up to something painful: the illusion, or perhaps the reality, of a timestamp placed on women.

A moment when we feel less wanted, less seen. When our worth feels quietly tied to the vibrancy of our bodies and the perception of our youth.

As a society, we are conditioned to hire the “young buck.” Models age out by 35. Younger generations sometimes see 35 as ancient. Whether or not this is universally true, the energy exists—that after a certain age, you have less to offer.

Thankfully, social media is now filled with women thriving well into their 50s and beyond, and that is becoming more normalized. But decades of conditioning—and the illusion of an idealized self—are still deeply embedded in many of us.

Facing the Mirror: The Moment of Truth

What I realized most clearly is this: as women, we carry immense grief around letting go of our younger selves.

We want to keep the wisdom, the confidence, the self-knowing—but we also long to feel fresh, radiant, alive in the ways we once were. There is a quiet mourning that happens here, one we rarely give language to.

The Social Lens: Judgement and Triggers

One of the most surprising parts of this reflection was considering how other women might feel about my choice.

Some might feel judged or carry shame for wanting Botox, coloring their hair, tanning, working out for aesthetics, or altering their appearance in any way. Others might feel triggered—or even threatened—by someone choosing to do this.

It became clear how deeply personal these decisions are, and how often they get tangled in societal expectations, comparison, and projection. So much of what we react to in others touches our own unintegrated fears and tender places.

There is immense pressure on women—especially after 40—to look a certain way. The beauty industry often frames aging as a problem to fix. But what if we questioned that story? What if we supported one another in honoring our unique journeys?

Embracing Vulnerability as Strength

Sharing this internal dialogue helped me see vulnerability not as weakness, but as strength. Being honest about my fears and doubts allowed me to meet myself with more compassion.

It also reminded me that many women are walking this same path quietly, even if they aren’t speaking about it.

Vulnerability creates space—for empathy, for understanding, for gentleness. This journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about authenticity. And choosing to be present with what is, rather than constantly trying to outrun it.

Throughout the years, I have struggled deeply with the idealized self. For a long time, those illusions created a veil of separation and comparison when I looked in the mirror. Some days, it felt incredibly hard to even meet my own reflection.

Over the past eight years, I’ve done significant healing around the parts of myself that learned to measure, judge, and disconnect. Through deep inner work, many experiences with ayahuasca, and having a partner who consistently reflects me back with love—who helps me see myself through his eyes—I’ve come to a different place.

I’m no longer trying to change myself for approval. I’m no longer chasing an idealized version of who I think I should be. Instead, I make choices because I can and because I choose to—knowing they are personal, sovereign decisions, not requirements for worth.

And regardless of what my body looks like, I love her.

The summary of my conversation

When Aging Feels Like Becoming Invisible (And Why That Grief De

serves Compassion)

There is a quiet grief many women carry that rarely gets spoken out loud.

It doesn’t arrive all at once.

It comes in mirrors, photographs, pauses before meetings, and moments of being seen—or not seen—the way we once were.

It sounds like this:

“I’m not as young anymore.”

“I’m not as useful.”

“I’m not full of life the way I used to be.”

And immediately after, the shame rushes in.

I should know better.

I know wisdom comes with age.

I know this is distorted.

But knowing doesn’t make the ache disappear.

This isn’t vanity. It’s grief.

What many of us are actually mourning is not youth itself—but the loss of automatic value.

When we were younger, desirability, usefulness, energy, and possibility were assumed. We didn’t have to explain ourselves. We didn’t have to prove relevance. We were chosen without trying.

As time passes, that changes.

Value becomes conditional.

Visibility feels earned instead of given.

Belonging feels fragile.

And yes—this is not imagined.

We live in a culture that disproportionately rewards youth, speed, productivity, and appearance. A culture that often struggles to hold reverence for depth, discernment, and lived wisdom.

So when a woman feels fear or sadness around aging, it doesn’t mean she’s shallow.

It means her nervous system is responding honestly to the world she inhabits.

“Not useful anymore” is a wound worth tending

That phrase carries weight.

For many women, being loved became entangled with being useful.

Being needed.

Being wanted.

Being something others could take from.

So when the external signals shift, the internal sense of safety wavers.

This is not about wanting attention.

It’s about fearing disappearance.

And that fear deserves tenderness, not correction.

You are allowed to want what you once had

There is a part of you that remembers the ease of being valued without explanation.

The warmth of being desired.

The simplicity of being chosen.

That part doesn’t need to be silenced or “evolved past.”

She needs to be acknowledged.

Desire is not the problem.

Shame around desire is.

What hurts is not wanting to be seen—it’s believing that without that gaze, you no longer matter.

You do.

What actually changes as we age is not worth—but audience

Here is the quiet, steady truth that often comes later:

As we age, fewer people project fantasies onto us.

Fewer doors open automatically.

Fewer eyes light up without discernment.

And while that can feel like loss…

What remains is cleaner.

Truer.

Less extractive.

The connections that stay are not based on novelty or consumption. They are based on presence. On substance. On choice.

This isn’t disappearance.

It’s condensation.

Peace doesn’t come from convincing yourself you’re still valuable

Affirmations often fall flat here because the body doesn’t believe them yet.

Peace comes from a different place:

Some people will not choose me anymore—and that no longer determines whether I choose myself.

That is not resignation.

That is maturity.

It is the moment a woman stops trying to earn belonging and starts authoring it.

A question to sit with

If you were no longer trying to be chosen…

Who would you choose to become visible for?

Not everyone.

Not the old mirrors.

Not the old metrics.

Just the ones who can truly see you now.

⸻

If you are reading this and feel tears, know this:

You are not broken.

You are not failing at aging.

You are not asking for too much.

You are standing at the threshold between being wanted and being rooted.

And that crossing is sacred.

You are not becoming less.

You are becoming real.

What are your thoughts? How does this land for you?

What is alive for you when you think about aging?

Maybe you see it as something completely different? I would love more open conversations about this!