Visibility Isn’t the Prize: A Love Letter to the Quietly Brilliant Queer Artist and Athlete

Hello again. Welcome back to OUTLINE.
I’m Alexander Paul Burton.
Still queer. Still making. Still moving.
And still learning what it means to show up—when no one’s watching.

Last time, we talked about validation—and how it isn’t the goal.
Today, I want to talk about something it’s often confused with: visibility.
And how it, too, isn’t always the prize.

If you’re a queer artist, performer, or athlete, you’ve probably felt this:
That if people see you, really see you—then you’ve finally “made it.”
But what if that spotlight doesn’t feel warm?
What if it comes with a cost?

I’ve done two indoor rowing ultramarathons completely by myself.
Each one was 24 hours.
Each one, 240 kilometres.
No cameras. No applause. Just me, and the quiet defiance of not quitting.
And somewhere around hour twelve, I realised:
This wasn't about being seen.
It was about proving—to myself—that I existed beyond metrics.
Beyond the curated gaze.
Beyond the need to perform for anyone else.

Visibility is often sold to us as the finish line.
But sometimes, it feels more like exposure than celebration.

I’ve had moments where I felt invisible and hyper-visible at once—
Ignored by the institutions that could uplift me,
But tokenised when it served someone else's narrative.

And I had to ask myself:
Am I only visible when someone else switches the light on?
Am I only valid when I look good doing it?

In my A–Z of Gay Self-Realisation, V is for Visibility.
And I didn’t call it a reward. I called it a risk.

Because to be seen, as a queer person—
in sport, in music, in writing, in your truth—
is to invite misunderstanding.
To walk into the fire of other people’s projections.

But still—we do it.
Not for clout.
Not for fame.
But for connection.
For purpose.
For the quiet satisfaction of saying: I was here. And I gave it everything.

If you’re an athlete listening to this, training alone, grinding through pain, wondering if it even matters—
It does.
It matters.
Even if no one sees the blistered hands, the slow miles, the internal war you fought just to finish.

Visibility isn’t the prize.
Wholeness is.
Peace is.
Freedom is.

If being seen brings you those things—fantastic.
But if it doesn’t?
You are still real.
You are still worthy.
You are still doing holy work.

There are queer people changing the world in silence.
Running ultramarathons with no finish-line photos.
Writing symphonies no algorithm ever shares.
Building things not to go viral—but to heal, to challenge, to last.

So let me say this, clearly:
You do not have to be visible to be powerful.
You do not need the world to notice you to be extraordinary.
You already are.

Protect your light.
Choose when to shine it.
Not when it’s trending—when it’s true.

I see you.
Thank you for showing up—quietly, fiercely, endlessly.

I’ll see you next time.