The Mirror Lies

There’s a strange moment that happens sometimes, usually late at night, when I catch my reflection in the mirror — and for a second, I don’t recognize the person looking back.

It’s not just aging or a bad hair day. It’s something deeper. A quiet, heavy question:

Is this really who I am?

Because the way I see myself is complicated, twisted by years of self-doubt, small victories, and invisible wounds.

And the way others seem to see me?

It feels like a completely different person — sometimes better, sometimes worse, but never quite me.

I grew up thinking that if I worked hard enough, smiled wide enough, and kept my flaws hidden deep enough, I could control how people saw me.

Perfect daughter.

Reliable friend.

Hard worker.

Someone who "had it all together."

Inside, though, I was a mess of fears.

I worried too much. Compared myself constantly. Felt like I was always two steps behind everyone else, faking confidence just to stay afloat.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who was:

Never doing enough.

Always a little behind.

Always a little wrong.

But to others, apparently, I looked like someone who had it figured out.

I remember once, a friend told me, "I wish I had your courage."

I laughed out loud — not because I thought it was funny, but because it felt so wildly wrong. Me? Courageous?

That night, I stared at my reflection longer than usual.

What do they see that I can’t?

What am I missing?

This disconnect showed up everywhere.

At work, I’d second-guess every decision, obsessing over tiny mistakes.

Meanwhile, my boss would praise me for being "sharp" and "confident."

In friendships, I was sure I was too quiet, too boring, too much in my own head.

Yet friends would thank me for being the one they could "always trust."

The person I was internally — anxious, uncertain, overthinking every little thing — didn’t match the person they described.

I started to realize something important:

Maybe I was wrong about myself.

Or at least... maybe I wasn’t completely right.

Maybe the voice in my head — the one that picked me apart, called me a failure, whispered "you're not enough" — wasn’t telling the truth.

Maybe it was just louder because it was closer.

Still, it’s not easy to just erase years of believing you’re broken in invisible ways.

It takes time to quiet the noise inside.

It takes time to believe that maybe — just maybe — the good things people see in you are real, too.

I started doing something small but powerful:

Every time someone complimented me, or told me something good about myself, I wrote it down.

At first, it felt fake. Like I was playing some cheesy motivational game.

But slowly, patterns started to emerge.

Words that kept showing up:

Strong.

Kind.

Thoughtful.

Brave.

Those weren’t words I would have ever chosen for myself.

But they came from people who knew me — people I trusted.

Maybe I owed it to myself to believe them a little bit.

One night not long ago, I sat in front of the mirror again.

No makeup. No filters. Just me, tired after a long day.

Instead of zooming in on every flaw, I tried to see what my best friend sees.

She sees someone who listens.

She sees someone who shows up.

She sees someone who, even when terrified, keeps moving forward.

And for a moment — a real moment — I saw her too.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

But enough.

More than enough.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

The mirror lies sometimes.

It shows you the surface, not the soul.

It reflects light, but not love.

It amplifies flaws, but not strength.

How we see ourselves will always be shaped by insecurities, memories, regrets.

But how others see us — the ones who truly know us — carries a truth we often can’t grasp ourselves.

Maybe the real answer isn’t in choosing one version over the other.

Maybe it’s about making peace with both.

The scared kid inside me and the brave adult outside of me can exist at the same time.

They’re both real.

They’re both me.

And maybe... just maybe...

When others say they see something good in me, it’s not because they’re lying.

It’s because they’re looking with love.

And love sees what fear tries to hide.