Curriculum of Disappearance

What happens when girls are taught to disappear—and women choose to remember

This is for every girl who was taught to disappear gracefully—
and for the women now gathering her back, piece by piece.

For those who learned to please.
To dim their fire. To read the room.
To earn love through good grades and good manners.

This poem is a clear-eyed, lyrical walk through that inheritance—
and a quiet rebellion against it.

---

curriculum of disappearance

my mother
never said it aloud
but her eyes did.
she wanted a daughter
who shimmered—
graceful, admired,
publicly lovable.

i tried
to become her,
but wearing her expectations
felt like skin two sizes too small.
my smile, too rehearsed.
my edges, too wild
for their dream.

so i shrank
into shadows,
mirrored the girl
everyone adored—
matched her laugh,
her rhythm,
her glow—
until i forgot
the shape
of my own voice.

there was no me—
only reflection.

first grade,
i learned jealousy
was a compass.
worth wore last names
like crowns
and clung to letters
after them.
not tenderness.
not truth.

second grade,
i learned to lie
with trembling hands
and wet eyes.
i told the teacher
i forgot it at home.
she forgave me
with a smile.

my integrity fractured
and i suffered the fall
but instead of
tending the break
i decided to perform it better

i thought
this is how it works
this is what good girls do—
they split
and call it
grace

by fifth grade,
i had mastered the art of erasure.
i was fluent in performance—
not a girl,
but a scanner,
reading the room for signs of approval,
adjusting tone, posture, breath—
everything—
to avoid being too much.

i floated above myself,
a spectator
with no center.
my body—
a borrowed costume.
my feelings,
wallpaper static.

survival meant
calibrating, mimicking,
vanishing.

eighth grade.
my body was becoming—
and that became a problem.

she opened the bathroom door,
steam curling,
she said,
“i wonder why your breasts
look like they’ve nursed
three children.”

she said it
like love.
soft.

but love came wrapped
in velvet cruelty.

i bled—
not with blood,
but with silence.
with shrinking.
with shame.

i stopped
wanting to be beautiful.
i just wanted
to disappear.

i didn’t know
this was abuse.
i thought
it was love.
care.
family.

but now—
i see the truth:
it was a war
against my soul
fought
in whispers
and smiles.

and every time
i disappeared
to stay safe—
i lost a piece
of the girl
i came here to be.

but this silence—
it wasn’t mine alone.
my mother had swallowed hers
before me.
her mother too.

they taught their daughters
how to disappear politely,
how to tuck rage beneath grace,
how to fold longing
into likability.

i inherited that silence
like a birthright.
it arrived in sighs,
in comparisons,
in the soft violence
of praise withheld.

this was not cruelty.
this was the curriculum.
they didn’t know
they were passing on
the wound
instead of the world.

for years
i lived in my head—
not deep,
just sharp.
bracing for threat,
for judgment.
adjusting before i was even seen.

there was no “i” there—
only reflex.
empty.

now—
in this fourth decade—
i am learning
to feel my body
without apology.

to stay.
to soften.
to belong
to myself.

i am gathering her now—
the wild one,
the soft one,
the one who asked
too many questions
and cried too easily.

i am piecing her back
from every silence
she was forced to swallow.

she is not too much.
she is not too loud.
she is not too soft.
she is not too late.

she is rising—
not as shimmer,
not as mirror—
but as fire.

some days,
i still feel the urge
to vanish—
to smooth the edges,
to stay safe.

but i return
to the seed of wildfire
cradled in my ribs—
my body,
my voice,
my own steady rhythm.

i am gathering her still—
not perfect,
but present,
and ever becoming.

With love, always
Ariadne Solis

---

🎵 Musical Offering

If your body is still buzzing—
if something stirred inside you—
let this song hold you for a few minutes.

“I Am” by Fia echoes the journey of this poem:
from shrinking to shining.
From reflection to embodiment.

May it remind you:
You are not who they told you to be.
You are so much more.

P.S.

If this spoke to your heart,
know that you’re not alone.
So many of us were taught
to split ourselves just to survive.

If you’re ready to begin gathering the pieces—
your voice, your story, your self—
I offer 1:1 coaching for women
in healing, transition, and creative reclamation.

Together, we’ll untangle the old narratives
and make space for the truth
of who you are becoming.

You’re warmly invited
to reach out for a free discovery call.

Or simply subscribe for free and stay awhile.
No pressure. Only presence.