🖤 The Knife of Invisibility: Aging, Power, and the Price of Being Seen
There’s a strange kind of magic that wraps around you like fog once you cross 50. Not the glittery kind—no. This is shadow magic. Bone-deep. Earned. You wake up one day and realize: you’ve become invisible.
At first, it’s almost a relief. You walk down the street and nobody looks at you like you’re a snack. No more unsolicited opinions on your body, your outfit, your smile. You move through spaces unbothered. It’s like a cloak of glamor that doesn't require spellwork—just time. You become untouchable in a way that is… liberating.
You’re free to be fully yourself, unpolished and unapologetic. You can go braless to the store in a cloak and combat boots, and no one bats an eye. You can talk to the wind, smudge your porch in broad daylight, or wear your age like armor, and people avert their eyes instead of offering advice. There is a quiet, potent kind of power in no longer being scrutinized.
But let’s not pretend this cloak of invisibility doesn’t have a cost.
Because there’s a sting that comes with being unseen. A grief. An ache. A sense that the world, which once weighed and judged your worth at every turn, has now decided… you no longer exist. You’ve dropped off the radar, and no one even noticed the blip.
It’s not that you want the male gaze back (goddess, no). But there was a time you walked into a room and mattered. People looked up. Listened. Even if it was for the wrong reasons, you were visible. Now? You sometimes feel like a piece of forgotten architecture—still standing, still solid, but no longer part of the tour.
You’ve fought battles—real ones. Not just the ones that left marks on your skin, but the ones that reshaped your soul. You’ve survived betrayal, divorce, death, depression, sexism, racism, motherhood, addiction, chronic pain, trauma, burnout, caregiving, injustice, and the sheer goddamn grind of existence. You’ve been the keeper of the home, the bearer of peace, the breaker of cycles. You’ve built people up and held them together while your own pieces scattered like ashes in the wind.
And you carry magic. Not the curated, aesthetic witchery of Instagram rituals and Pinterest spells (though we love a good aesthetic). No, your magic is deeper. It’s the kind that hums low in your bones and smells like smoke and memory. The kind you don’t have to show off, because it just is.
So when some baby witch—still tasting the ink of their first witchcraft book—starts talking down to you about how “citrine is good for abundance,” as if they’ve uncovered ancient secrets you couldn’t possibly grasp… it’s maddening.
You nod politely while they lecture, with the wide-eyed certainty of someone who’s never been cracked open by their own power. They speak to you like you're new. Like you haven't been doing this for decades, like you weren’t reading Tarot with a paperback Jung on your altar while they were still in diapers.
They explain grounding. As if you don’t already walk barefoot under the moon and whisper to trees that know your name.
They tell you how to cleanse energy. As if you haven’t cleared generations of trauma from your bloodline.
And the worst part? They don’t ask what you know. They don’t recognize that the same wisdom they’re so eager to display might already live in you. Deeper. Older. Rooted.
This isn’t about ageism alone—it’s about disrespect. It's about the erasure of experience. The fetishizing of newness. It’s about how in a world obsessed with youth, even magic becomes a popularity contest, and elders are left in the corner like dusty tomes no one wants to open.
🔥 So What Now?
Now? You stop waiting to be asked.
You stop shrinking your brilliance to make space for someone else’s spotlight. You stop offering your stories to people who haven’t earned the right to hear them. And most of all, you stop mistaking invisibility for irrelevance.
You were never invisible. The world just forgot how to see someone who isn’t trying to please it.
Let the new witches light their candles and recite their rhymes. Bless them on their path. But don’t let them talk to you like you just got here.
Because while they’re memorizing crystal properties, you’re out here embodying them.
While they’re casting love spells, you’re breaking ancestral chains.
While they’re staging aesthetic altars, you’re standing in the ruins and building new temples with your bare, blistered hands.
🕯️ Burnt Truth:
Aging is a blade.
But in your hands, it’s a sacred tool. It cuts away illusion. It carves space. It reclaims power.
You are not fading.
You are condensing.
You are becoming so potent, so distilled, that only the worthy can even perceive you.
Let them underestimate you.
Let them talk over you.
Let them pretend they invented what you already lived.
And when they do?
Let them burn their fingers trying to touch your magic.
Because darling—
You are not invisible.
You are veiled.
And veil magic?
Is the most dangerous kind.
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