The Mirror and I"

"The Mirror and I"

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But what if the beholder is the mirror—and the reflection is mine?

I was born on a rainy evening, the kind where the clouds sigh deeply and the winds whisper secrets to the earth. My mother often tells me that the first thing she noticed about me were my eyes—dark, wide, and curious, as if they had questions to ask the world even before I could speak. “She’s going to be beautiful,” they said. But I wonder—did they see the beauty in me, or did they plant it in me with their words?

From a young age, I began to realize that my presence had a way of turning heads. At school, boys would stammer when they talked to me. Girls would sometimes smile too kindly, other times not at all. Teachers praised my intelligence but often added, “And such a pretty girl too,” as if my appearance was a golden frame around my thoughts.

I do not say all this with arrogance. No, I say it with the tenderness of someone who has lived both within and beyond the boundaries of a lovely face.

Let me describe myself—not in the way others do, but how I see me.

My hair falls in long, soft waves that catch the sunlight like golden silk, though sometimes it plays tricks and darkens in the shade. It is not perfect; there are flyaways and knots on humid days, but it’s mine, and it moves with the wind like a wild secret. My skin is a dusky rose, warm like late summer, and smooth like river stones polished over time. My lips are full and often painted in the shades of berry or coral, depending on my mood. They curve into a smile that has made strangers soften and mothers nod in approval.

But my eyes—my eyes are the traitors and the storytellers. They hide nothing. They gleam with laughter, burn with defiance, and glisten with sorrow. They are my truth.

There is power in being beautiful. People listen more closely. Doors open without knocking. Compliments fall like spring rain. And yet, beauty is a double-edged sword. It draws attention not only from admirers but also from envy, from desire uninvited, from those who think beauty belongs to the world, not the woman who carries it.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder—what would I be if not beautiful? Would people still want to hear my poems? Would they still call me clever? Would they still sit beside me in silence just to feel peace?

I have walked through rooms where silence followed me, not because of my words, but because of my face. I have been told that I am too pretty to be sad, as if sorrow needs permission from beauty. I have seen people assume I must be vain, shallow, or waiting to be adored.

But let me tell you this: beauty is not a mask I wear; it is a veil I lift.

Inside me is a world full of dreams, fears, and a relentless desire to be more than someone’s fantasy. I read books with pages that smell like time, write poems that ache with truth, and dance barefoot in my room when no one is watching. I have loved deeply—so deeply that it hurt—and I have cried in the shower so my tears wouldn’t be heard.

I am not a goddess. I am not a doll. I am not a painting that needs framing. I am flesh, bone, breath, laughter, storm.

And yet, I embrace my beauty. Why shouldn’t I?

I wear dresses that make me feel like poetry. I walk like I have stars in my heels. I speak like my voice is a song worth listening to. I love my reflection—not because it is flawless, but because it is fiercely mine.

There was a time when I tried to dim my light to make others comfortable. I wore plain clothes, tied my hair back, and looked down when I walked. But I realized that hiding myself was not humility—it was fear. So I chose to shine, unapologetically.

Now, when I walk into a room, I carry the legacy of every woman who has ever been told to be less. I wear my beauty not as a weapon, but as a banner.

And I hope that when people see me, they see not just the curve of my waist or the arch of my brow, but the fire in my soul. I hope they understand that beauty is not my destination—it is my companion.

So yes, I am beautiful.

But I am also brave.

I am gentle.

I am wild.

I am more than what you see.

And if you ever truly look into my eyes, you will see the truth I carry like a hidden jewel:

I am a story waiting to be to