MIRROR - The conversation behind the glass.

 MIRROR - The conversation behind the glass.

Some days, the mirror stares back longer than I do.

Not judging,

Not smiling,

Just watching like it knows:

The battles beneath the skin,

The weight behind my eyes,

The noise I carry in silence,

And everything I stopped saying out loud.

When I stand in front of the mirror, fixing my hair, checking my skin. I forget it holds more than just what I see. It reflects more than a face, hair, skin, or body.

It speaks quietly, but clearly!

of my insecurities, 

self-doubts, 

the need for validation,

and the small hopes I’ve slowly let go of.

I look at my body and feel like I owe it an explanation.

TOO THIN,

TOO FRAGILE,

TOO “YOU SHOULD EAT MORE.”

As if my worth hangs by a thread, tied to someone else’s approval.

I touch the scars, the acne, the uneven skin, like they're flaws I must fix to feel worthy of being seen. I hesitate before wearing certain clothes, wondering:

Do I look enough?

Pretty enough?

Enough to be accepted?

Enough to be liked?

Because this is what we've been told,

To be perfect.

To fit in.

To have flawless skin, a certain shape, a certain kind of beauty, according to some invisible rulebook no one remembers writing. And somehow, we gave strangers and sometimes even the people we love, the power to decide whether we are acceptable or not.

And it stays with us.

In the smallest moments.

Like when we walk into a room and feel the urge to shrink. When a compliment feels uncomfortable because we don’t believe it. When we look at a photo and only notice what’s “wrong.” When we say “I’m fine” but mean “I feel like I’m failing.”

It creeps into our thoughts, makes us second-guess our choices, over-apologize, seek validation like it’s the only proof that we exist right.

It builds walls inside us,

between who we are and who we think we should be.

And slowly, without even realizing it,

we begin to disconnect,

from our body,

from our joy,

from our reflection.

We perform, instead of living.

We chase approval instead of peace.

We become so good at hiding our insecurities that we forget how to be honest, even with ourselves.

But somewhere along the way, something soft begins to shift.

Maybe it’s the tiredness! of constantly hiding, fixing, pleasing.

Maybe it’s the whisper that says,

“What if I am not the problem?”

What if I’m allowed to take up space as I am?

What if beauty isn’t a checklist but a presence?

I begin to sit with myself gently.

Not trying to correct, just trying to understand.

I look into the mirror, and instead of picking myself apart,

I pause.

I see tired eyes but I also see someone who’s still trying.

A fragile frame but one that’s still standing.

A face full of stories, NOT FLAWS.

And maybe that’s where healing starts,

Not in fixing.

but in softening.

Not in becoming someone else,

but in returning to myself.

Raman