The Woman in the Glass

CW: Contains themes of body image issues and disordered eating patterns.

I have watched her longer than anyone else has.

Before she learned how to pose.

Before she learned how to perform.

Before she learned how to disappear inside herself.

I knew her when she still stood too close to me, nose almost touching the glass, eyes wide, curious, unafraid of her own reflection. She was small then. Soft-faced. Loose-limbed. Hunger meant snacks and sweets and sticky fingers and crumbs in the corners of her mouth. Her body was light. Her spirit was loud. Her laughter filled the room before she ever did.

She didn’t search my surface back then.

She just existed in it.

As a little girl, she didn’t question what she saw.

She accepted it.

Then time began to stretch her.

Her body changed first.

Longer limbs. Sharper edges. A face that started to ask questions.

Her appetite changed too — not just for food, but for belonging. For approval. For certainty. She began to study herself instead of simply seeing herself. She leaned in closer, tilting her head, pulling at her skin, practicing expressions. Trying to look like something. Trying to become something.

This is when she stopped looking at me and started looking through me.

Teenage years arrived like a storm.

She came to me hungry in new ways — not always for food, sometimes for attention, sometimes for love, sometimes for validation, sometimes for escape. Her body changed shape. Her face learned how to hide. Her eyes learned how to perform. Some days she ate too much, some days too little. Some days she disappeared inside hoodies and silence. Some days she tried on confidence like a costume.

Her style shifted with the seasons.

Her identity shifted with the rooms she was in.

Her voice shifted depending on who was listening.

But I never changed.

I watched her try on versions of herself like clothes:

The quiet one.

The strong one.

The pretty one.

The tough one.

The invisible one.

The loud one.

The soft one.

The unbothered one.

The guarded one.

She thought she was becoming different people.

She didn’t know she was just trying to survive.

Then she became a young woman.

Her body filled out.

Her face softened.

Her hunger became complicated.

Now it wasn’t about snacks — it was about control.

About comfort.

About coping.

About stress.

About exhaustion.

About emotional weight.

About nourishment and neglect in cycles.

She ate when she was overwhelmed.

She forgot to eat when she was anxious.

She ate for pleasure.

She ate for punishment.

She ate for comfort.

She ate for survival.

She changed her hair.

Changed her clothes.

Changed her style.

Changed her voice.

Changed her posture.

Changed her weight.

Changed her expression.

But still — she searched.

She stood in front of me longer now.

Studying.

Analyzing.

Comparing.

Critiquing.

Judging.

She was trying to find something in her reflection.

She didn’t know she was looking for herself.

Then came love.

Then came marriage.

Then came motherhood.

Her body changed again — softer in places, stronger in others.

Her appetite shifted again — now shaped by time, exhaustion, sacrifice, responsibility.

She ate standing up.

She ate last.

She ate leftovers.

She ate cold meals.

She forgot hunger.

She ignored it.

She postponed it.

Her hunger became secondary to everyone else’s.

Her reflection changed — but her eyes didn’t.

They carried weight.

They carried responsibility.

They carried love.

They carried tiredness.

They carried resilience.

They carried fear.

They carried devotion.

Her girls came into the world and everything else rearranged itself around them.

The marriage stayed.

The family stayed.

The home stayed.

The structure remained the same.

She was the one who kept evolving.

She became quieter.

Stronger.

Softer.

Wiser.

More tired.

More grounded.

More aware.

More layered.

She smiled less for performance and more for peace.

She spoke less for approval and more for truth.

She dressed less for attention and more for comfort.

She existed less for others and more for survival.

And still — she kept searching in me.

She thought growth meant becoming someone new.

She thought healing meant transformation into someone else.

She thought evolution meant changing her face, her body, her identity.

But I have always known the truth.

She was never becoming.

She was returning.

Because I remember the girl who stood in front of me without fear.

Without performance.

Without masks.

Without needing to be anything.

The girl who didn’t question her reflection.

The girl who didn’t negotiate her worth.

The girl who didn’t shrink.

The girl who didn’t perform.

Every version after her was adaptation.

Survival.

Coping.

Learning.

Protection.

Endurance.

Responsibility.

Strength.

Sacrifice.

She thought she was changing.

I saw her shedding.

There were years when she didn’t recognize herself at all.

Years when the reflection felt foreign — like a stranger wearing her face.

Her style changed again.

Her body shifted again.

Her hunger changed again.

Not just hunger for food —

hunger for rest.

hunger for silence.

hunger for stability.

hunger for safety.

hunger for certainty.

She learned to crave peace more than chaos.

Stillness more than noise.

Truth more than validation.

Her appetite matured the way her spirit did.

She no longer chased fullness.

She searched for nourishment.

She chose what sustained her instead of what distracted her.

What grounded her instead of what numbed her.

What healed her instead of what filled her.

Her reflection grew calmer.

Her movements slower.

Her eyes steadier.

She no longer rushed past me.

She no longer avoided me.

She no longer rushed through her own presence.

She stood still.

She learned how to be with herself.

Some days she still didn’t like what she saw.

Some days she still felt heavy.

Some days she still felt tired.

Some days she still felt unsure.

But she stopped fighting the image.

Stopped negotiating with the glass.

Stopped demanding that her reflection be something else.

Because she finally understood something I had always known:

Transformation doesn’t arrive loudly.

Healing doesn’t announce itself.

Growth doesn’t look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like quiet.

Sometimes it looks like stillness.

Sometimes it looks like peace.

Sometimes it looks like acceptance.

Sometimes it looks like rest.

Sometimes it looks like a woman standing in front of a mirror —

not trying to change herself —

just learning how to recognize herself.

She thought she was losing herself.

I saw her peeling away what she was never meant to carry.

The world saw a woman growing older.

A mother.

A wife.

A provider.

A caretaker.

A survivor.

I saw a girl learning how to come home to herself.

They see the surface.

The shape.

The weight.

The lines.

The years.

The roles.

I see the continuity.

The same eyes.

The same softness.

The same resilience.

The same spirit.

The same core.

The same soul that once stood on tiptoes in front of me, curious and unafraid.

She still comes to me.

Still stands in front of me.

Still searches sometimes.

But not the way she used to.

Now she doesn’t scan her face for flaws.

She doesn’t negotiate her worth.

She doesn’t perform for her reflection.

She doesn’t demand perfection from the glass.

Now she breathes.

She pauses.

She looks.

She recognizes.

And for the first time in years, she isn’t asking me who she is.

She already knows.

And I — the mirror —

have always known.

Because I don’t show who she pretends to be.

I show who she has always been. 🪞✨