My Shadow is Prettier Than Me

Hi, I'm Munel and this is how I see things.

When I was ten years old, my friend pointed out the regality of her shadow. The figure, the height, the gait. I stared at my own shadow. I liked my shadow's figure. I liked my shadow's height. I liked the way my shadow walked. I gave my shadow a face. It was brownskin with caramel almond-shaped eyes, a button nose, and full lips. It didn't have a double chin. It didn't have overly full cheeks that seemingly distorted the shape of her face.

She was very beautiful.

I grew up habitually looking down at my shadow. I admired my shadow when I walked under the perfectly angled sun. I paused my conversations to look at the form of my shadow under the ground. When I walked, I felt like I was shuffling, but when I looked at the sashaying of my shadow, and wished I could be like her.

She is so pretty.

I notice people staring at me, but they never approach me. I see people whisper and look at me, but I never hear what they say because I'm focused on my shadow. I'm seventeen years old now, and I still love my shadow.

But sometimes I wonder: do I love my shadow more than myself? I’ve spent years pouring admiration into her grace and beauty, holding her up as an ideal. While I stumble and shuffle in the real world, she moves effortlessly—always poised, always perfect. Her beauty feels untouchable, her presence eternal, but what about me? The person casting that shadow?

I often feel like I live in her reflection rather than the other way around. My shadow doesn’t carry the weight of self-doubt. She doesn’t trip over her words or falter under the gaze of strangers. She’s unbothered by the fullness of cheeks or the awkwardness of youth. And though I created her face, sculpted it with every ounce of the confidence I lack, I’ve never managed to wear it myself.

There are moments, fleeting ones, when I catch a glimpse of what it might feel like to merge with her. When the sun strikes at just the right angle, when I’m walking through the world and her confidence radiates up into me. In those moments, I feel weightless, almost powerful. I think, maybe this is who I am too. Maybe she isn’t so separate from me after all.

Yet, when the shadows grow faint or disappear entirely, I’m left with only myself—the me that shuffles, stumbles, and second-guesses. And it’s in these times I realize how much I’ve tied my self-worth to that fleeting silhouette. She’s a part of me, yes, but she’s not all of me. The shadow is a mirror, and like any mirror, she shows only a piece of the whole.

I’m learning, slowly, to look beyond her. To see the beauty and worth in the person who casts the shadow. The shadow may glide with effortless grace, but it’s my feet that carry her. It’s my body that gives her shape. Without me, there is no shadow. And maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to love the entirety of who I am—even when the sun sets and the shadow fades away.

So here I am, still looking at my shadow, but also starting to look up. To meet the eyes of others, to hear what they whisper, and to walk—not shuffle or stumble, but walk—as myself. My shadow is beautiful, yes. But so am I.