Why We Keep Feeling Unseen (Even When People See Us)

“You look familiar to me,” the woman said. “Have we met?”

We were at a networking event, standing in a banquet room I’d never been in, replaying a conversation I'd been in countless times.

“Where do you work?” she asked. “Do you have kids?”

As I answered her questions, the familiar thought popped into my head: She probably knows me as Sandi’s wife.

It wasn’t a welcome thought but one I’ve tried to beat back, playing whack-a-mole with it for a couple of decades now.

“Well,” I ventured. “I did publish a book this year. Maybe that’s how you know me?”

She snapped her finger. Oh my god – she knew me as an author! But then: “Wait- are you friends with Emilie?”

I smiled – my heart suddenly metabolizing pride, sadness, and... something else.

Resignation maybe? “Yes, she is one of my closest friends.”

And she is. I adore her. And I’m always proud to be associated with her, for people to know my face because it appears so often beside hers.

And also: what’s a girl gotta do to be known – to be seen – as herself?

The Pattern That Kept Making Me Feel Unseen

There is a recurring theme in my life: I often feel unseen.

Not invisible in a dramatic sense. More subtle than that. Like being known through someone else's story rather than my own.

Sandi’s wife. Emilie’s friend. Ella and Maya’s mother. Jan’s daughter. I’m proud of all these roles. And yet, sometimes I feel invisible as me.

It’s ironic, right? I’ve just had the most visible year of my life, and I often still feel unseen.

This tells me it’s about something deeper. There’s a repeating pattern here.

And it’s one I unknowingly reinforce every time it happens. I take a neutral thing – being known through someone else – and use it as proof.

It happened again this week.

"Am I Invisible?": The Story of Feeling Unseen

I was at a concert and posted a picture of me with friends Matt and Ange. I tagged them, so of course it showed up on their feeds.

The comment came in fast and told me something important. “Coach Mattttt!” was all it said. Two innocuous words that I instantly made dangerous.

I’m not even seen on my own social media feed, my brain whined, apparently willing to build an entire legal case from two words and several exclamation points.

This was a wholly unwanted reaction; it made me feel needy, childish and ungracious. It also further revealed the pattern.

The comment wasn't the problem. The reaction was. My old pattern of feeling unseen had already been activated.

Before I could even question it, my brain had already filed the evidence: See? There it is again. Proof.

But later that same night, something happened that made me stop.

I was standing in line behind a woman when a man stepped in front of her. “Excuse me,” I said. “She’s in line.” (An improvement from the story about the graduation line in last week’s blog post.)

He apologized and retreated. Then someone else cut in front of her. The woman spun around and asked me, “Am I invisible?”

"No. You're not. It's your turn."

The moment stayed with me. Because I realized I’d been asking – and inaccurately answering – that question all my life.

How Stories Shape What We Notice

One of the things I teach through Story Medicine is that stories – the mental constructs we create about people and situations – don't just shape how we interpret our lives.

They shape what we notice.

Once a story takes hold, we start collecting evidence for it. Not consciously, but automatically. And it’s the automatic part that makes it so hard to detect.

If your story is:

• I'm invisible.

• I'm too much.

• I'm not enough.

• I'm not chosen.

You'll scan for confirmation and filter out contradictory data.

We notice the moments that support the story and often overlook the moments that challenge it. We filter so well, we can no longer see evidence against it.

But being unseen and feeling unseen are not the same thing.

If the story is "I'm unseen," no amount of recognition will ever feel like enough. Because the mind will simply dismiss it and keep searching for evidence that confirms what it already believes.

This is the work I do through Story Medicine. Not convincing people to think positively or ignore their experiences, but helping them identify the stories they've mistaken for truth.

Because once we can see a story, we can question it. And once we can question it, we can begin to rewrite it.

Why Recognition Didn't Make Me Feel Seen

As I sat with all of this, a memory surfaced.

A few months ago, I was at a local fundraising event, grazing through the buffet, when a woman said, “Are you Suzanne Carver?”

“I am,” I said, bracing for the all too-familiar conversation.  

“Aren’t you the writer who just published a book? And don’t you also teach?”

I nearly dropped my vegan cornbread. “Yes,” I stammered. “I am.” (I was so stunned I almost added, “And Sandi’s wife and Emilie’s friend.”)

This was a huge moment for me – the first time I was ever “recognized.” It was the kind of moment I'd secretly wanted for years.

Do you think it was enough to finally resolve this feeling unseen thing I had going? Nope. I actually forgot about it within a day. Because it didn't fit the story I was telling.

The evidence was there. I just wasn't collecting it.

Feeling Unseen vs. Being Unseen

Here’s the thing: sometimes people genuinely overlook us. It happens and it’s painful.

And this is where it can get confusing – the story isn’t completely false.  That's what makes stories so convincing. They're usually built from a kernel of truth.

The problem begins when "I feel unseen" stops being an experience and becomes an identity.

Because once that happens, we can continue feeling unseen even when we're being recognized, appreciated, celebrated, or chosen.

(Hello – I had an actual billboard in Times Square, and it didn’t resolve this.)

Why Being Seen Isn't the Solution

This is the part we keep outsourcing. We want someone else to see us so clearly that it finally settles the question inside us.

Choose me. Recognize me. Validate me. Prove that I matter. (Picture Meredith Gray: "Pick me. Choose me. Love me.")

And of course we want that. We’re human. Being seen by others matters. But it cannot become the place where our identity lives.

Because if we are invisible to ourselves, someone else’s recognition can only offer a temporary hit. It may feel good for a moment, but it won’t integrate. We’ll dismiss it, minimize it, forget it, or decide it doesn’t count.

We’ll filter it out.

I was seen. I just couldn’t receive it.

Not because the recognition wasn't real, but because it contradicted the story.

The real work wasn’t becoming visible enough for the world to finally confirm me. The real work was becoming visible to myself.

What Story Are You Proving?

The story wasn't that people couldn't see me. The story was that I couldn't receive being seen.

What story have you been proving lately? Not because it's true. Because it's familiar.

What evidence have you been collecting?

And what evidence have you been overlooking because it doesn't fit the narrative?

The question wasn't whether people could see me. The question was whether I could see myself. Because no amount of recognition can settle a question we're unwilling to answer for ourselves.

Maybe that's the real question for all of us: Are we invisible?

No. We're not.

It's our turn.