Being Invisible and the Search for Meaning in Another Person’s Life

The other day, something unexpected happened. While browsing an educators’ database for positions in Ontario, Canada, I was scrolling through my usual routine—expecting nothing new—when I saw it: my ex-wife's position and her school.

My first reaction was impulsive: What the hell? Why wouldn’t she tell me?! Then, almost immediately, I shrugged it off: Who cares? It’s her life. But later, after sitting with the thought for a while, a deeper question emerged: Why didn’t she tell me?

I had assumed that after nearly 30 years together and as co-parents to two adult children, there was still some baseline of acknowledgment between us. At the very least, I thought she would share a simple update—whether she had resigned, renewed, or moved on. But I received nothing. I was in the dark. Zero communication.

Then I thought? Did I too do that to her and this was an unconscious act of sowing and reaping? What dreadful though that is. If it were even true.

It wasn’t the first time. Years ago, when we were not married, at my son's wedding, a long-time close friend mentioned her mother had died. I was stunned. Wait… what? When? I had no idea. I had liked her mother—Olive was her name. She was kind, warm, and always welcoming.

Yet no one had told me. Not my ex-wife, not anyone. I stood there at my own son’s wedding, listening to the news that a good friend from a past mother had died… blindsided, stumbling through an awkward conversation that should never have happened.

Not the first time.

And now, seeing her job posted, I wasn’t sad because we were no longer together. I was sad because, after everything—all the years we spent building a life, all the support I gave her in becoming the school administrator she is today—she still couldn’t extend the smallest courtesy of a message: Hey, by the way… just letting you know.

Well, to be completely honest, she did contact me to inform me that the daughter of a mutual friend whose daughter passed away at a young age—24, I believe. I acknowledged that and sent my sympathies to the families. After all, I have known their daughter since birth.

So, it's not all doom and gloom, but upon reflection, it feels like a symbol of being shut out, dismissed, and cast aside.

This kind of exclusion isn’t new. For years, I waited patiently, hoping for her acceptance—longing to be part of her world, to feel like I belonged. But she kept me at a distance. I was never quite enough—never refined enough, never intellectual enough, never on her level. And when she finally decided to move past that belief, she took action—she left. Since then, she has shut me out completely, as if she had always believed she was above me, and I was meant to stay in her shadow.

One of the last things she said to me was, "I don’t want you out of our kids’ lives—I want you out of mine!" Imagine someone saying that to you?

And now, once again, she sent the same message she always has:

Simon, please don’t exist.