The Art of Disappearing

A quiet moment in a house of five. A plate over my face. And the question: who are you when no one's looking?

Dear Reader,

There are days I want to be invisible.

Not in a tragic way, more like a child who throws a blanket over their head and believes they’ve disappeared.

One of my boys did this when he was four.

We were playing hide-and-seek, and he stood in the middle of the lounge room with a blanket over his little body, certain we couldn’t see him.

“You can’t find me!” he shouted.

And in his world, he was right.

Some days, I want to do the same - disappear.

Not forever. Just long enough to soften the edges of being seen.

Just slip between the noise, the boys, the meals, the clients, the inbox, the questions, the songs, the instruments.

To stop performing. Stop holding. Stop directing.

To breathe.

In a house of five, I dream of stillness. Of silence.

And my version of the blanket?

A plate over my face.

Odd, maybe - but oddly perfect.

A quiet signal to the world: I’m here, but I need a minute.

Because even when you’ve built a life you love, the art, the work, the family, it doesn’t mean it’s not heavy.

Even the beautiful things can weigh a lot.

Lately I’ve been asking myself:

How do I hold all that I’ve made, without losing the part of me that made it?

How do I stay intact, inside the rhythm of everyone else’s needs?

How do I find the me that existed before I became the organiser, the mother, the anchor, the artist, the strong one, the always-here-for-everyone one?

Who am I when no one’s looking?

Because quiet is rare in this house.

And solitude is a luxury.

But every now and then, I claim it, even if it’s just a moment.

A deep breath. A song. A hand over my heart.

A pause between plates!

This isn’t a guide.

It’s the quiet art of disappearing, or maybe, finally remaining.

And if you’ve ever felt the same, this is your reminder that you’re not alone.

That even in the lives we chose, we’re allowed to disappear now and then,

not to escape them, but to return to ourselves.

Let this be that moment.

With love,

Mardi

P.S.

If this spoke to you, I’d love to have you along for the ride.

I’ll be sharing more letters like this, alongside new songs, stories from the album and

glimpses into the book that’s forming between them all.

And if you think these words might land with someone you love, pass them on.

That’s how the echoes grow.