I started walking the city at night. I photographed the people society looks right through: elderly women waiting at bus stops, overnight janitors smoking in alleyways, the calloused hands of street vendors. I captured the invisible people, because I was one of them.

I called the series Invisible Women. I created an anonymous Instagram account. No face, no name. Just the art. Over three years, I amassed 12,000 followers.

And three weeks before the anniversary party, I received an email from Coastal Light Gallery in Monterey, California. The owner, Marcus Coleman, wanted to discuss representation.

I hadn’t replied. I didn’t think I deserved it.

But the night of the party, after the humiliation, after washing dishes until my hands were raw, I found the smoking gun.

It was midnight. The guests were gone. I needed to use a computer to send a client file, and my laptop was at home. I opened my mother’s MacBook on the kitchen counter. Her Gmail was open.