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.
Where Cracks Begin
I stand on thin ice,
Each step a question, each crack a reply.
The cold hums low beneath my feet,
A fragile hymn, steady, incomplete.
The weight of the past whispers too loud,
Ghosts of the year pull me through the crowd.
I carry them still, though I try to let go,
Their shadows linger, soft but slow.
And yet the ice holds.
It sings, it bends, but it does not break.
And yet I move.
Through the strain, through the soundless ache.
The frost bites deep, sharp and bare,
But I feel alive, I find myself there.
No maps, no guide, no lines to trace,
Just the fragile beauty of this quiet place.
The cracks beneath are the cost of time,
Marking the moments I’ve called mine.
No promises made, no safety line,
Just the sound of the world and this life of mine.
And yet the ice holds.
It sings, it bends, but it does not break.
And yet I move.
Through the strain, through the soundless ache.
The past is loud, the future unclear,
But the now cuts through like frozen air.
To stand on the edge, to balance the weight,
Is to trust the ice and call it fate.
And yet the ice holds.
It hums, it groanWs, it shifts, it aches.
And yet I move.
Through the cracks, through what the ice takes
And yet the ice holds.
It hums, it bends, it shapes, it creates.
And still I rise.Through the grind, through the opened gates.
Vibes ins Bild
Kleine Risse zeichnen sich ab, flüstern unter der Haut,
Der Spiegel fragt nicht mehr, er fordert laut:
„Wer bist du jetzt, da der Mantel geschmolzen ist?“
Die Jugend verblasst, doch die Narben sprechen für sich.
Jede Falte, jede Linie schreit lauter als die Stille,
Das hier ist kein Verlust – es ist Überleben im Wirbel.
Jeder Riss wirft Vibes ins Bild,
Ich habe genug, was Schönheit eigentlich ist.
Eine Ode an das Fremde in dir,
Ich bin Zukunft, ich bin hier.
Dieser Körper entschuldigt sich nie,
Speichert die Nächte, wach mit dem Screen.
Fenster auf, die Nacht bringt Beats im Stream,
Jede Falte erzählt von ‘nem neuen Traum.
Das „Ich“ ist unperfekt, doch es gehört nur mir,
Eine Revolution – nicht für sie, sondern für hier.
Ein Bild, das blendet, ein Ziel, das fehlt,
Wer hat bestimmt, was Schönheit erzählt?
Jeder Riss, der die Haut durchzieht,
Ist ein Blitz, der durch die Schatten flieht.
Ich hab genug von der Angst vor dem Vergehen,
Das hier ist Alchemie, ein kompletter Reset.
Jeder Riss wirft Vibes ins Bild,
Ich habe genug, was Schönheit eigentlich ist.
Eine Ode an das Fremde in dir,
Ein Geheimnis, das ewig lebt in mir.
Wer hat entschieden, dass glatt das einzig Wahre ist?
Dass mit der Zeit Unsichtbarkeit dich frisst?
Nein, ich weigere mich, ich hör den Regen rauschen,
Jeder Riss lässt das Licht durch; ich kann es ewig lauschen.
Das hier ist nicht nur ein Körper,
Ein Manifest, das rauscht in jedem Flüstern.
Kein Produkt,
Ungezähmt, ungebrochen – eine Ode an die Frauen,
Die in Schatten und Licht ihr Fremdes erbauen.
Jeder Riss wirft Vibes ins Bild,
Das Fremde in mir wird zur Melodie.
Glitch, Glam, Chaos, Fun,
Ich tanz durch die Risse und fang neu an.
SHAKE IT OFF
SHAKE IT OFF
The world has shifted.
Once again.With Trump’s return to office, we enter a year that pulls at us, challenges us, refuses to allow spectators. What remains? What fades? What do we shed because it no longer carries us?I threw Christmas trees through the air. Not out of anger, but out of movement, out of release. Because letting go does not happen sitting still. Because some things need to be cast off with force. Because sometimes, one’s place in the world must be reclaimed.This year demands exactly that. Not just words, not just reflection, but the act of being present. Of taking part in life, even when thoughts are heavy, even when everything calls for retreat. Even when the weight of things presses one to the ground.The words are there. Song lyrics, sentences, fragments. They surface when I am not sinking into the snow or freezing my fingers on the camera. The cold cuts, sharpens, clarifies. And while everything outside turns rigid, I feel something inside me remain alive. Perhaps that is the only direction.The Zeitgeist presses. It shapes, shifts, demands adaptation—but it also endures resistance. Perhaps it is not the grand gestures that define our time, but persistence. The unwavering act of being here. The preservation of aliveness—even in the cold.
The year’s rolled in, but I’m still here,
Dragging last year’s weight, shedding fear.
No big plans, no shiny dreams,
Just me, my hustle, and my own schemes.
Who says I need a script to play?
I’m freestyling my own damn way.
No ceilings, nah, I break through,
watch this space – I’m coming through.
Shake it off, burn it down,
No more waiting, I run this town.
Life’s too short for staying small,
Big moves only, I want it all.
No grand design, just vibes and flames,
Here’s to a year where I change the game.
They said, „Pipe down, know your place,“
But I’ve got big dreams they can’t erase.
No road map, just guts and grit,
My city, my rules, I’m owning it.
We rise, we roar, we don’t back down,
The deadlines press, I’ll wear the crown.W
No limits, nah, it’s ours to take,
We’re queens in kicks, make no mistake.
Shake it off, burn it down,
No more waiting, I run this town.
Life’s too short for staying small,
Big moves only, I want it all.
No grand design, just vibes and flames,
Here’s to a year where I change the game.
They call us ‘extra,’ but we don’t care,
We’re flipping scripts, we’re everywhere.
This one’s for the ones who hustle hard,
Who turn their scars into battle cards.
Shake it off, burn it down,
No more waiting, I run this town.
Here’s to the women who break the mold,
To power, grit, and hearts of gold.
No grand design, just fire and flair,
Here’s to a year where we take it there.