The Mirror's Reflection

Lena sat in the dusty attic, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of an old sketchpad. The room around her was still, the only sound being the occasional creak of the house settling. It had been months since she’d come here, since she’d hidden away from the world outside. In the silence, her thoughts roared louder than ever—recollections of failure, dreams that had slipped through her grasp, of who she was and who she no longer believed she could be.

She remembered when art used to make her heart race. The colors. The brushstrokes. The feeling of creating something from nothing. But now? Now, the canvas was empty, just like her.

Her friends had tried to reassure her. “You can start over, Lena. It’s never too late.” But the words felt hollow. She had tried to start over before. Every time, the doubts found their way in, wrapping themselves around her, choking out her confidence. The voice in her head would always say, You’re not good enough.

Her hand trembled slightly as she ran it across the sketchpad, and she drew a simple line. The faintest outline of a cityscape, but it was already falling apart. It had no direction, no purpose. Just like her.

The door creaked open behind her, and she didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The quiet steps. The soft breathing. It was her mother, always the gentle reminder of what it felt like to be loved, even when you felt like you didn’t deserve it.

“Still drawing, Lena?” her voice was tender, but filled with a quiet sadness. She had been worried about Lena for months now. No one could see the depths of her daughter’s struggle, but her mother felt it in the spaces between their conversations.

Lena didn’t reply immediately. She just stared at the incomplete sketch. The truth was, she wasn’t really drawing. She was just moving the pencil, pretending. It didn’t feel like art. It felt like a prison.

Her mother sat beside her, as she had so many times before, when life had become too heavy. She placed a hand gently on Lena’s arm. It was warm, comforting, a silent understanding.

“Do you remember when you were little?” her mother asked, her voice nostalgic. “You used to paint those wild, vivid landscapes. You didn’t care what anyone thought. You’d throw yourself into your art without hesitation, without fear.”

Lena’s lips curled slightly, but there was no joy in it. “I was just a kid, Mom. I didn’t know any better.”

Her mother’s gaze softened. “No, you were brave. You created because it made you feel alive. You didn’t worry about how it looked or whether anyone understood. You just did. That’s what I miss about you.”

Lena’s breath hitched, and she closed the sketchbook with a soft thud. “That girl is gone, Mom. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. I don’t think I can do it anymore.”

Her voice cracked, the weight of the words breaking through her walls. The walls she had built so carefully, so tightly, to keep everyone out. But in this attic, with only her mother beside her, the truth came rushing in.

Her mother’s hand tightened on her arm, her touch a tether to the world outside her pain. “Lena, it’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to feel lost. But you don’t have to stay there. You don’t have to stay in this moment forever. You can step forward. You can breathe. You can try again.”

Lena shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “What if I try again and fail, Mom? What if I’m never good enough?”

Her mother smiled gently, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to keep going. You don’t have to have it all figured out. All you need to do is take the next step. One step at a time. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s uncertain.”

The tears came then, unexpected and raw, streaming down Lena’s face. For the first time in so long, she let herself feel the weight of everything she had tried to bury. She had spent so much time searching for a perfect path, for a perfect version of herself, that she had forgotten that growth didn’t always come in smooth lines.

Her mother wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s okay. You’re enough, just as you are.”

Lena looked out the small attic window, the soft glow of the setting sun casting a warm light across the room. And for the first time in a long time, she felt a flicker of hope. Maybe it wasn’t about being perfect. Maybe it was about the willingness to try again, to move forward, even when the way wasn’t clear.

Taking a deep breath, Lena opened her sketchpad once more. This time, her hand didn’t shake. She drew with no expectations, no pressure. Just the desire to create.

And as the cityscape slowly began to take shape on the page, she realized that the imperfections, the unfinished edges, were part of the beauty. Part of who she was.

In that moment, Lena finally understood.

It wasn’t about reaching some perfect destination. It was about the journey. And that was enough.