The Bright Side of Becoming Invisible as a Mom

Things have changed lately, but not quite the way I expected.

There’s a man I envy. Leaning casually on his elbow at a high-top table with his coffee cup, he doesn’t seem to be working, or at least not yet. But he’s not absorbed in his phone, either, or a book. Casually, he converses with other regulars filtering in and out of the coffee shop where I’ve set up my laptop for a morning of work. Joking with the barista as she places drinks on the nearby counter, this man more or less holds court as he sips his morning coffee in a public space. It looks appealing, his apparent leisureliness, as I dive headlong into my work day, sharply aware of the clock ticking down to childcare pickup time. But it’s not this guy’s free time I covet.

There are men like this at the bakery down the block, too, where I take my toddler son for muffins on weekend mornings. The south-facing bench outside the big front window features a rotating cast of retired-looking men lounging with their mugs, legs stretched toward the sidewalk. From the two-top inside where my son perches on my lap dismantling a bran muffin, I watch the men’s easy body language. A phrase comes to mind: “like they own the place.” And I finally put my finger on it, the thing that makes me jealous. 

In all the hours I’ve clocked in coffee shops over the years, all the miles I’ve walked through neighborhoods and cities both far and familiar, I don’t recall ever feeling as relaxed—entitled maybe?—as these guys appear to be, as they hang out alone in a public space. I mostly recall something closer to the opposite, feeling awkward, like I didn’t belong or should take up less space. Fearing I might attract the wrong kind of attention. But something about this has been changing recently—since I had a baby.

What does having a kid have to do with feeling at home in public spaces? More than I expected, it turns out. I just wish I’d known it long before. Like, in my 20s, when I strolled naively into a newly opened cafe in my neighborhood, having recently moved to the city. Ordering a glass of red at the quiet bar and contentedly tucking into my paperback, I longed for some anonymous alone time outside my tiny apartment. Quickly my dream of peaceful anonymity was deflated by various men at the bar who sidled up to chat, unbidden. Surely I didn’t actually want to read the book I was staring into. Surely it was an advertisement for companionship instead.

In my 30s, I got a dog and noticed how it changed the feel of my solo neighborhood walks, easing the perception of vulnerability or feelings of awkwardness. Not so much because the dog offered protection (he was an utterly unthreatening retriever mix), but because he presented a purpose. I was not simply a woman with the audacity to wander alone—which never seems to cease to elicit attention, or at least a vague feeling of unease. I began to wonder if a woman alone in public can ever actually be a subject—and not an object. Or was the problem just me?

“We would love to be invisible in the way a man is,” writes Lauren Elkin in her book Flâneuse. She points to the masculine concept of the flâneur, from the French verb flâner: one who wanders aimlessly, historically a privileged masculine figure with freedom to roam and loiter. But when the idea of the flâneur was codified, in the 19th century, a female equivalent was impossible—a whole set of social mores and restrictions applied to women. 

“Bourgeois women out in public ran all sorts of risks to their virtue and their reputations; to go out in public alone was to risk disgrace,” Elkin writes. Combing literature and history for signs of a female version of the flâneur, she finds women’s presence in public spaces has always been fraught. And she doesn’t even tug on the tangled threads of race and class that further complicate things.

But digging into history reveals specific snags that have kept women from feeling free and easy, preventing us from that coveted feeling of invisibility. For example, in London up until the later 20th Century, lack of access to toilets was one aspect tying women to the home. The few public toilets in Victorian London were for men—and quote-unquote respectable women couldn’t just relieve themselves in an alley. “This was part of a broader Victorian pattern of dividing the city into a male-oriented 'public' sphere and a female-oriented 'private' one,” writes Alwyn Collinson for the Museum of London.

We’ve come a long way from Victorian England, but watching last year’s Barbie movie told me I haven’t been alone in my discomfort. In one scene, Barbie and Ken cross into the real world from Barbie Land, and for the first time, Barbie experiences a disquiet, aware of the male gaze as they Rollerblade down the boardwalk:

BARBIE: (looking worried) I feel kind of ill-at-ease, I don’t even know the word for it... Like I’m conscious of it but it’s my self I’m conscious of-

KEN: (happy as a clam) I’m not getting any of that. I feel appreciated but not ogled. Mine has no undertone of violence. 

BARBIE: Mine very much has an undertone of violence. 

I nodded knowingly in the theater. But also, noted something has changed for me lately—since I became a mom. Maybe it’s hormonal, my brain rewiring to center my son and his needs and safety, priming me like a mama bear. That pinch—the tug of self-awareness or discomfort I used to get when navigating public spaces—feels a bit dulled lately. Maybe it’s because my toddler vacuums my attention like a black hole and I simply don’t have the capacity to even notice others, let alone care what they think.

Or maybe now that I’ve filled my societally accepted role as a woman and procreated, I settle into the public picture in a new way I never could have as a woman alone. “As soon as I was visibly and clearly pregnant, I felt, for the first time in my adolescent and adult life, not-guilty,” writes the poet Adrienne Rich. 

Another possibility: I’m simply responding to a marked drop in actual attention paid to me in public. I did, in fact, turn 40 the year my son was born, and while I’m stronger and happier than ever in many ways, my under-eye bags and saggier, sun-damaged body have certainly clocked the age. It makes me wonder if this newfound feeling of freedom actually stems from nearing the notorious age when women become invisible. (Anyone remember “Last F**kable Day”?)

In many areas—including the workplace—fading from society’s attention is problematic. Much has been written about this shift in power women experience as they leave youth behind. Some lament the loss of the male gaze, but on the other hand there’s sweet freedom and authenticity to be had in finally bucking the attention game. (Getting away with street art, anybody?)

I’m sure both my age and my shifting focus contribute to the new devil-may-care attitude that’s risen in me. But I feel it just as strongly when I’m alone, no toddler or husband in tow. Moments and interactions that previously left me unpleasantly fluttery land differently now. Where there used to be an uncertainty, some small underlying current of fear, now there’s something heavier, more solid. Instead of balloons, my anchor is a kettlebell.

Over drinks recently, a writer friend of mine shared a discussion she’d had with her therapist. Talking about the heroine’s journey—the trials women go through to find their true inner power—my friend bemoaned all the hard work of the proverbial journey. She asked her therapist what women really got out of it all in the end. Her response? ”Fuck-you eyes.”

Not like bitter, angry eyes. But “I no longer need your approval” eyes. The look of someone who’s been through the fire and emerged standing strong in their own inner knowing. Existing as subject, not object. Caring deeply, more than ever—just not about what other people think. 

Maybe that’s it, I thought. Maybe I’m earning my “fuck-you eyes.” 

Was it giving birth that initiated me into this phase? Did I earn this new confidence through the hard knocks of learning how to mother? Maybe my newfound sense of strength is simply from stepping into a fresh role that requires me to advocate for my child and myself in new ways. I’m much better at saying no these days.

One way or another, the younger self who sensed my presence didn’t hold the same weight as a man’s, the part of me that was easily cowed, feels more distant. Whether or not I’m becoming invisible outwardly doesn’t seem to matter—because it’s the way I feel inside that’s changed. But as I move through the world with this sturdy new sensation, a small ember of frustration also burns in me. Why should women have to complete the heroine’s journey—whether it’s the crucible of giving birth and childrearing, or just growing up for 20 years—simply to earn the everyday ease in the world that seems to be men’s birthright? (See: Ubiquity of memes about carrying one’s self with the confidence of a mediocre white man.) 

With my son on my lap in the cafe, I wish I could go back in time and magically bestow on my 19-year-old self the confidence and security I feel. Did I not deserve to feel this power until now? Are young women these days more apt to feel like they own the place, too? I hope so. I brush together the muffin crumbs with a napkin, and vow to myself: When the toddler in my lap has grown and my ponytail is grey, I, too, will lean my elbow comfortably on a high-top table, or stretch my legs from my sidewalk bench, and slowly sip my coffee—without even a paperback for cover. I’ll take these fuck-you eyes and simply be.