The Mirror

The mirror has watched me hate my body, rebuild it, grow life inside it, and somehow learn to love it again.

The mirror has seen everything.

It has seen me at my absolute worst — standing there picking apart my body. Tracing the lines, the wrinkles, the stretch marks, the sagging skin. Wondering if I will ever feel like my old self again. Wondering if anybody could ever love this version of me.

The mirror has heard every silent criticism my mind could create.

But it has also witnessed my proudest moments.

It watched the day abs appeared on my stomach — abs I built myself after a life-altering surgery that almost took my life. It saw the strength I carved into my body piece by piece. The muscle. The endurance. The determination.

The butt I grew all on my own.

It watched me go from too skinny to finally trusting my body and building muscle.

The mirror has watched me become someone who learned to trust her body again.

And long before that, it watched my body do something even more incredible.

It watched me grow human beings.

Four of them.

Standing there in awe, looking at a body that held life inside of it — a kind of wonder that words will never fully capture. Feeling movement beneath my skin. Knowing someone was growing inside of me.

Then later standing in that same mirror wondering if I would ever get my body back.

Trying harder. Working harder. Pushing myself because the reflection staring back at me didn’t match the image I had in my head.

The mirror has seen every version of me.

My worst.

My strongest.

And every messy moment in between.

And now it is watching something else happen.

Time.

I will be 38 later this year.

I have a child who is about to turn 18.

Somehow the girl who once stood in front of that mirror wondering who she would become is now raising almost grown men.

There’s something surreal about that realization. One moment you’re a young mom just trying to figure it all out, and the next you’re standing in front of the mirror realizing your babies are almost grown. The same body that carried them, fed them, chased them through toddler years, and stayed up through sleepless nights is now learning how to carry you into a different season of life. One where you’re not just raising children anymore — you’re watching them become adults. And somehow, through every stretch and every scar, your body has walked you through all of it.

My body is changing.

Getting older.

Doing things differently than it once did.

There are days when it feels like it is fighting me more than helping me.

Especially living with two autoimmune diseases that no one can see from the outside, but that sometimes make me feel like my body is quietly falling apart.

But even on the hard days… this body still shows up.

It still lets me help my boys practice basketball.

It still carries me up trails when I hike.

It still lets me explore the world — mountains, cities, places I once only dreamed of seeing.

It still allows me to live.

And that is something we take for granted more often than we realize.

The harder days have a way of reminding me just how fragile that gift can be. They slow me down, force me to listen, and remind me that every hike, every basketball practice, every step into the world is something my body is still choosing to give me.

Which is why this morning caught me off guard.

As I was getting ready, a little bit of midriff peeked out between my shirt and my pants. For a second I caught my reflection and thought,

“Look at you, girl.”

It surprised me.

I actually paused.

Then I started scanning my body — not to criticize it this time, but to remember it.

Everything it has been through.

Everything it has carried.

Everything it has survived.

The four boys I grew inside of me — all between nine and eleven and a half pounds — bodies that stretched and pushed the limits of what mine could hold.

The surgeries.

The harder days.

The years of trying to fix it, control it, change it.

And also the things we don’t always talk about.

The traumas of actions we never agreed to.

Moments where choice was taken away, where the body held experiences the heart never asked for.

So many women carry stories like that quietly.

And yet our bodies keep going.

Keep healing.

Keep holding us through life.

And suddenly I felt something I don’t feel nearly often enough.

Awe.

Not because my body looks perfect.

But because it is still here.

Still fighting.

Still carrying me.

Still strong enough to keep showing up for my boys, my life, and the world I still want to explore.

For a moment, time stopped.

And instead of seeing flaws, I saw the story.

The survival.

The strength.

The life lived inside this body.

Today wasn’t just a “look at you, girl” moment in the mirror.

It was something deeper.

It was finally seeing myself the way I encourage everyone else to see themselves.

With grace.

With compassion.

With love.

The mirror has seen every scar, every stretch, every survival.

But the mirror was never the problem.

Learning to see myself with compassion was the real reflection waiting to happen.

Today, it finally saw me look back with love.

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