Why Some of the Best Stories Are Invisible

A few years ago, while I was getting my bachelor’s degree at a (not-cheap) private liberal arts university of my choice, I learned that my mom’s monthly paychecks were being deposited directly into an account I didn’t know about.

The account was set up specifically to pay my tuition, and nothing else.

I remember feeling a little taken aback when I found out, for a moment unworthy of the gift, and for another moment shocked that it would be given so quietly. No fanfare. No parade. No “look-at-what-a-good-mom-I-am” search for acknowledgement. Just my mom, showing up diligently to her job everyday, so I could go to college.

“This is what moms do for their kids.”

That’s what I remember her saying when I asked her about it, while she stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about what an extravagant act it was, and yet how invisible. I don’t have kids of my own yet, but I can tell you with certainty that I’ve never done anything that selfless for anyone, and when I do anything selfless at all, I usually I want the credit.

I’m terrified of being invisible.

It’s funny how we hold onto our biggest fears in life and sort of live them out, so that in some ways they become our own created realities. In some moments I find myself tiptoeing around people, trying to protect feelings and relationships, never willing to be too loud or take up too much space.

At other moments, probably when I get tired of being so quiet all the time, I feel like I’m slamming around in my life — closing cabinets loud and walking loud, and raising my voice just to get someone to notice.

My husband says he never has to wonder where I am.

I’m always clunking around a little bit.

*Photo by millerm217, Creative Commons


And to be perfectly honest, I’ve always wanted my story to be kind of loud too, to go down in the history books. I’ve dreaded the thought of being too quiet, wanting instead to be worth noticing, to make a splash. But as I think about this story about my mom, and at least a dozen other quietly generous and beautifully simple and seemingly-invisible stories connected to my own, I can’t help but realize that a quiet story is not a bad story.

In fact, it might be the best story of all.

I think about my husband, who always wanted to write a book, but has put his dream on hold to make money while I write and publish mine; about my friend Rebecca, who I lived with before I was married. While I tried to “make it” as a full-time writer, she shared everything she had with me — her clothes, her food, her car.

I think about my friend and cousin, Krisi, who moved her entire life from Texas to Minnesota last winter to help my husband and me launch and sustain Prodigal Magazine. Then I think about all the people who made her move possible.

The list could go on and on.

These are people who never once asked for credit, never needed their names to show up in the bright lights. They just showed up daily to their individual stories, doing what they knew was right — daily acts of courage, visible or invisible.

They’re heroes in my story, heroes in their own stories, and heroes in the larger story being written — even if no one is watching.

But someone is watching. Especially now.

I’m starting to keep my eyes open for people who are living silent but beautiful stories. Some of them are connected to my own, others are not. But all of them are connected to the broader story, the story we’re all writing together. All of them valuable. I’m starting to celebrate them in a way I couldn’t have before.

And the weirdest things happens as I celebrate the quiet stories of others.

I’m not scared of being invisible anymore.

Why Some of the Best Stories Are Invisible is a post from: Storyline Blog