When the Mirror Learns to Speak.

When you’re little and start showing signs of adolescence, it’s both a shy and awakening stage.

You don’t quite know who you’re becoming yet — you’re caught between childhood and womanhood, between wanting to be invisible and wanting to be understood. If you have a caring family, that transition feels easier, almost gentle. They guide you through it without judgement. But when your family is the type that points and questions, conforming becomes a way of survival.

“Why’s your body shaped like that?”

“Why does your hair grow that way?”

They sound like harmless questions, but they never are. Those words sink into you and stay there. Sadly, we all have things we’d rather not be noticed for, but some of us are never allowed to forget them.

For me, it was my chest — developing early and drawing attention I never asked for.

At home, it became something to talk about, laugh at, or pass comment on.

“Doesn’t it weigh too much?”

“Are you comfortable carrying all that?”

I laughed it off, because that’s what you do. But inside, I started to shrink. I became so aware of myself that I began to hide. I dressed to cover up, avoided mirrors, and learnt how to disappear in my own home. I stopped standing tall because standing tall meant being seen.

You become a shell in your own space — afraid to exist too loudly.

And when you flinch, when the hurt shows, they tell you, “You’re too sensitive.”

But those little comments, the constant reminders, chip away at your confidence. They make you doubt your natural beauty before you’ve even had the chance to recognise it.

As I grew older, I realised it wasn’t just me.

Others carried the same quiet burden, only in different shapes.

For some, it was their weight.

For others, their skin, their voice, or simply how they took up space.

And sometimes it’s not even about appearance — it’s the endless questions:

“When are you getting married?”

“When will the babies come?”

They sound like normal family talk, but they aren’t. They remind you that you’re constantly being measured against expectations you never agreed to.

Everyone struggles with something, and most of it begins at home — in the words that were said and the looks that followed.

As a teacher now, I see it far too often.

The quiet pupils who already know how to hide the parts of themselves that make them different.

The ones who flinch when praised, as if waiting to be told it’s not enough.

The truth is, the very things people comment on are often the most beautiful.

They make you you.

And what’s strange is, once you start accepting those parts, they stop feeling like flaws at all.

I’ve learnt that the heavier side I once tried to hide has become my greatest strength.

There was never anything wrong with me — only with how they saw me.

I spent years trying to make myself smaller so others would be comfortable, until I realised I wasn’t made to fit anyone’s idea of perfection.

I no longer wait for validation or softer words. I’ve learnt to be my own comfort, my own calm in a world that once made me question my worth.

So now, chest out, head high — I walk into rooms as though I belong there, because I do.

And if anyone stares, I let them.

Let them see what confidence looks like when it finally stops apologising.

Because when the mirror finally learns to speak, it should sound like you.

Not an apology.

Not a whisper.

But a declaration.