Invisible

WHAT A BORROWED WHEELCHAIR TAUGHT ME ABOUT VULNERABILITY, LEADERSHIP & REFLECTIVE PRACTICE

I've spent the last 3 days looking at belly buttons and crotches!

Not because Glasgow has suddenly become very friendly.

Because I've been sitting in a borrowed wheelchair – and there's a sentence I never expected to write!

A Different View of the World

We booked tickets for the TRNSMT GLASGOW music festival months ago. Then I broke my foot.

Rather than cancel, we borrowed a wheelchair and came anyway.

It's been brilliant.  It's also been unexpectedly enlightening.

Not because people have been rude.  Most haven't.

But I've realised just how invisible and vulnerable you become when the world is designed for people who are standing.

People stop suddenly in front of you;  They walk backwards into you;  They step over your feet;  Conversations happen somewhere above your head.

For three days I've had an uninterrupted view of belt buckles, handbags, beer glasses, belly buttons and far too many unfortunate pairs of shorts!

(I've also had the privilege - or perhaps terror - of experiencing Jonathan's interpretation of Formula One wheelchair driving.)

I've laughed... a lot.  But I've also found myself thinking…

---

WHEN GRIEF MAKES YOU FEEL INVISIBLE

This year has already taught me something about invisibility - Not the physical kind, the emotional kind.

Four bereavements in a matter of months have a way of subtly changing your relationship with the world. Life carries on. People carry on. They don't mean to be insensitive. They're simply living their own lives.

Meanwhile, you're carrying conversations that never got finished, memories that arrive without warning and an exhaustion that isn't always visible to anyone else.

Grief has a curious way of making you feel both surrounded by people and somehow unseen.

Then, just as I was beginning to find my feet again... I broke one!

Suddenly, the emotional invisibility I'd been experiencing became something I could literally see.  Or perhaps more accurately... Something I could feel.

Not because people were uncaring.  But because most of us simply don't notice experiences we've never had ourselves, until life changes our perspective.

We Don’t Notice what we haven’t Experienced

It made me wonder how many people feel like this every single day?  Not because they're using a wheelchair, but because they're grieving…

• Or quietly living with anxiety.

• Or caring for an ageing parent.

• Or feeling overwhelmed at work.

• Or trying to lead a team while wondering if they're good enough.

• Or sitting in a meeting where everyone else seems louder, quicker and more certain.

So many people become invisible, not because others don't care, but because their struggles don't come with a flashing neon sign.

This is one of the reasons I value reflective practice so deeply.

---

WHAT REFLECTIVE PRACTICE REALLY TEACHES US

Reflection isn't simply about understanding ourselves better. Reflective practice invites us to become more aware of ourselves and of others. It helps us notice assumptions, question our reactions and pay attention to what might otherwise go unseen. Whether we're leading a team, supporting colleagues or simply trying to be a better human being, that wider perspective matters.  It's asking ourselves:

• Who haven't I noticed?

• Whose voice hasn't been heard?

• Who seems different today?

• Who keeps saying they're "fine"?

• What assumptions am I making because I've never stood - or sat - where they're sitting?

Whether I'm coaching, facilitating, supervising or simply having a conversation over coffee, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that one of the greatest gifts we can offer another human being isn't advice, it's attention.  Real attention.

The kind that notices.  The kind that becomes curious.  The kind that makes someone feel seen.

 The Gift of truly Being Seen

This year wasn't supposed to look like this:

• Four bereavements.

• Three funeral services delivered.

• A broken foot.

• A borrowed wheelchair at a music festival.

None of those appeared on my plans for the year!

Yet each, in its own way, has quietly altered how I see the world.

Sometimes life lowers your viewpoint so you can finally notice what you've been walking past all along.  Perhaps that's the invitation?

• To slow down.

• To look around.

• To make eye contact.

• To ask one more question.

• To notice the colleague who's unusually quiet.

• The friend who suddenly stopped calling.

• The family member who's always holding everyone else together.

Because the people who feel most invisible are often hiding in plain sight.  And

sometimes all it takes is one person who chooses to notice.

Perhaps that's what all of my work has really been about, long before I had the words for it.  Not helping people become someone different, but helping them notice what was there all along.  In themselves, in others and, most importantly, in the spaces between.

In fact, that's one of the things horses do so well. They don't see job titles, confidence or carefully constructed masks. They simply notice what's there.