Category: Uncategorized
The Weight of Memory
Today. A birthday. Memories sharpen, even as the rain poured in streams through the halls of Westminster. It was before Covid. A memorial ceremony. The room, heavy with dark wood, was alive. Not an oppressive silence, but one that pulsed with presence. In the first and second rows, scattered all the way to the very back, sat the survivors. Their faces raised, marked by the years, but their gazes alive, resolute.
There was no uncertainty in their eyes. They knew why they were there. They knew their presence mattered because they were history, because they were the last who could speak. They carried the weight of that task with clarity. They looked at us—not to complain, but to ensure that we understood, that we listened, that we would carry what they gave us.
I remember their eyes. Not broken, but clear. In a world that had spent so much time in silence. In an era where the unspeakable had overwhelmed the spoken, they had found words—not because words could suffice, but because they were necessary. Their stories stood in the room like bridges. Between us and what we had never experienced.
What happens when they are gone? That question was already there then, as if it filled the space between their voices and our thoughts. Now, today, it is more urgent than ever. Almost all of them are gone. The rows are empty. What remains when the bridges grow thinner, when the witnesses no longer have faces?
What remains is what they have left us. Not complete stories. Not fixed knowledge. But an obligation. A demand to not let remembrance become an empty ritual, to not let it be just a story we tell, but a stance we live.
Perhaps that is the final task for those of us who are still here. Not only to preserve, but to tell. Again and again, despite everything. Against forgetting, against the noise of time. The voices of the survivors were never loud, but they were clear. And if there is anything we can learn from them, it is this: Humanity is not a condition. It is a decision. Every single day. For all of us
The Art Of Being Seen

It begins quietly.
A kind of silence that doesn’t just settle around you but takes root within. As a woman in my 50s, I first noticed it in the absence of gazes. Or rather, in their disappearance. The world that once saw me now looks through me. A silent farewell from a society that worships youth, beauty, and productivity as an endless refrain.
Invisibility. It is not merely a condition .Women entering midlife feel this power like a veil being draped over them. A message, subtle yet unmistakable: Your time of being visible has passed. But what does it mean to become invisible as a woman? And more importantly, what does it mean to resist? The body—my body—is not a relic of the past. It is a living archive, a vessel of stories, memories, struggles, and joys. Every wrinkle, every scar is a mark, a testament to a life lived. Yet we are told to hide these marks, to smooth them out, erase them. The body is meant to be neutral, flawless, “timeless.” But in truth, these lines on our skin speak of resilience, of survival. They are not the problem—our cultural denial of aging is. The invisibility that women my age experience is not a random phenomenon. It is a structural act of omission, of erasure. Society privileges what is young, what is efficient, what is easily controlled. And this is precisely why it is so important that we, as women, refuse to step aside, that we remain visible, that we tell our stories. Visibility is an act of resistance.
I often think about what it means to transform as a woman in a world that sees transformation as a threat. The body that changes defies the illusion of permanence, of perfection. And yet, within this transformation lies a profound truth: We are not less as we age. We are more. More depth. More history. More connection. Remaining visible takes courage, especially in a society that urges us to disappear. It is a daily act of choosing to speak for ourselves, to stand for ourselves, to see our bodies with love and respect. It is the choice to reject the narratives imposed upon us and to write new ones—narratives that honor dignity and transformation rather than deny them.Because the truth is, invisibility is not a destiny. It is a construction, and like any construction, it can be dismantled. By telling our stories, by recognizing ourselves in the mirror, and by creating spaces where lived experience is valued, we strip invisibility of its power.In a world that fears aging, the body of a woman who loves herself and remains visible is a radical statement. A reminder that life is found in change, not in stasis. That dignity does not dwell in the surface, but in the depths. Perhaps what we truly fear is not invisibility, but our own strength—the strength to remain visible, despite it all. And in that strength lies the possibility to change the world—one woman at a time.