The Mirror Lied

On grief, softness, and the woman becoming beneath the ache

The mirror lied —
said I was still me.

But I don’t recognize
these eyes,
this body,
this hush where laughter used to live.

There was a time
I could find myself
in photographs,
in mirrors,
in the curve of my own handwriting.

Now —
I search the glass
and meet a stranger
with milk-stained shirts,
dull roots,
and eyes that flinch
from their own reflection.

She is not who I was.
Not the girl who laughed freely,
who planned weekends,
who wore mascara
just because.

That girl didn’t cry
in parking lots.
Didn’t flinch
when the baby monitor crackled.
Didn’t wonder
how a body could ache
from being loved so much —
and still feel so hollow.

I grieve her —
quietly,
violently,
in dressing rooms
and dark showers
and the middle of the night
when everyone else is sleeping.

But I’m starting to see
someone else
in the mirror now.

Now I am someone new.
Scared.
Split open.
Soft.

And this new woman —
this aching, rising, softened version —
she is learning.
She is here.
She is mother.

And she is mine now.

Looking past the mirror — still learning to see her clearly,
Rose