The Art of Being Invisible (And Almost Crashing a Birthday Party)
There’s a certain magic to being an occupational therapist—especially when working with children. We do our best work when we are almost invisible, gently guiding, shaping, and scaffolding so that the child (or adult) takes centre stage in their own story. But every now and then, the lines blur just a little, and suddenly, you find yourself invited to a child’s birthday party 🎁, a sleepover at the aquarium 🐠, or—on one memorable occasion—mistaken for an actual playdate.
That last one still makes me laugh. A parent once told me how their child kept asking for a particular playdate, but they just couldn’t figure out who it was. They went through the class list, suggested every friend from nursery, even asked the neighbours. And then, finally, it dawned on them: the playdate their child was asking for was me. Occupational therapy at its finest—so well-disguised as play that the child assumed I was just part of their social calendar!
Of course, invitations like these are the highest form of flattery. Take the birthday party invite, for example. I was handed a carefully decorated card (complete with stickers and scribbles) and told in no uncertain terms that my presence was required. Now, as much as I would have loved to join the party, I had to decline politely—though let’s be honest, the cake was tempting. But instead of missing out entirely, I did the next best thing: we threw a birthday party in therapy. There were pretend presents, a cake made out of Play-Doh (which, thankfully, no one tried to eat this time), and an enthusiastic game of “pin the tail on something that vaguely resembles a donkey.”
And while all of this looked like fun (and was!🤩), what was really happening was something quite intentional—something Dr Ayres taught us well. The art of OT is in how we use ourselves, our interactions, and our understanding of the “just right challenge” to shape the person’s experience in a way that builds their capacity. We don’t just facilitate play; we structure it so that the child meets just enough challenge to grow—stretching but not breaking, succeeding but not coasting.
This is what I love about occupational therapy. We don’t just help people participate in life—we bring life into therapy. We dress up as superheroes, ride on the back of imaginary yellow cars, and crawl through obstacle courses, all in the name of developing motor planning, sensory integration, or self-regulation. We become pirates, astronauts, and—on more than one occasion—horses. (A word of advice: always check that your knees are up to the task before agreeing to be the galloping steed in a game of “rescue the teddy.”)
But here’s the catch: because our work looks so much like life itself, people often don’t see the layers beneath it. Play isn’t just play. It’s how children develop their understanding of the world, learn to regulate emotions, and practise problem-solving. It’s where sensory integration, motor coordination, and social skills all collide. And for adults, our work is just as layered—helping people find ways to engage in meaningful daily activities, whether that’s making a cup of tea, returning to work, or navigating public transport with confidence.
The more seamless our input, the more it looks like the person is doing it all on their own. And really, that’s the goal. The better we are at our job, the less we are noticed. The more exquisite our invisibility, the more the person believes in their own success.
But sometimes, just sometimes, the invisibility slips—and you find yourself holding a party invitation from a very determined five-year-old. And honestly? That’s when you know you’ve done something right.
So Why is This a Marketing Problem?
This brings me to a great point raised in LinkedIn by Alex Huband about OTs having a marketing problem. And he’s absolutely right.
Occupational therapy is everywhere—but often, it’s so embedded in life, so naturally integrated into what people do, that it becomes invisible. Unlike other professions with clear, defined outputs (a splint, a prescription, a surgical intervention), our work is often measured by what people achieve rather than what we do. When we’re at our best, we step back. And when the person succeeds, it looks like they’ve done it all on their own—because, in a way, they have. That’s the point.
But that also means that people, even those receiving OT, don’t always recognise it as occupational therapy. They just see their child playing, their parent getting dressed more easily, or themselves moving through life with more confidence. They don’t always see the years of training, the careful activity analysis, or the intentional therapeutic decisions that made it happen.
This is where Dr Ayres, probably unbeknownst to her at the time, pioneered what we now see as the artful form of occupational science—the study of how humans engage with their world and how we, as OTs, can shape that experience through the “just right challenge.” This isn’t just about “helping” people; it’s about curating the right conditions for change. It’s why we can be invisible in the process—because when it’s done well, the person believes they did it, and they carry that forward into life.
But therein lies the challenge: If success looks like independence, then by definition, the OT disappears from the narrative. And yet, if we’re too invisible, how do people understand the value of what we do?
It’s a tricky balance. Maybe the solution isn’t to stop being invisible (because, let’s face it, that’s what makes OT so effective), but to get better at telling the stories. To highlight not just the outcomes, but the thinking and science behind them. To show that play, movement, and engagement aren’t just “nice to haves” but essential for learning, development, and participation.
Perhaps we need to take a leaf out of that five-year-old’s book and be a little more insistent: “You HAVE to come to the party!” Or, in our case, “You HAVE to know what OT really is!”
Until next time,
Kath 🎈