The Bi-Polar Mirror
The Mirror Doesn’t Lie, But It Doesn’t Tell the Whole Truth Either
There’s a moment almost every morning—right after I throw on something I half-decided to wear last night, and just before I leave the house—where I stand in front of the mirror and ask, without words: Is this who I am today?
The mirror answers quickly, like it always does. A glance. A frame. Nothing more. There’s my face. My eyes, still carrying whatever dream I left behind. My skin, uneven but mine. My body in a certain posture, depending on the day—shoulders drawn in, or defiantly squared. The mirror tells the truth in a language made of light and shape and symmetry.
But it’s never the full truth.
And some days, it feels like a flat-out lie.
Because how can it possibly reflect the weight I’m holding? It doesn’t know how much effort it took to get dressed. It doesn’t register that today’s eyeliner is war paint. It doesn’t see the tremble under my ribs when I button a shirt that belonged to someone I lost. The mirror is good at showing outlines—silhouettes, angles, textures—but it cannot show substance.
It can’t show my exhaustion.
Or the courage hiding under mascara.
Or the way my hands shook while getting dressed because a memory slipped through the cracks in my chest.
There’s a strange intimacy between us, me and the mirror. I don’t always like it. It’s like making eye contact with someone who knows part of your story—but not enough. Not the messy chapters. Not the footnotes.
And yet, I keep going back.
Because I’m looking for something.
Some mornings, I think I’m searching for affirmation—that I look good, or strong, or passable enough to move through the world without questions or stares. Other times, I think I’m searching for recognition. Like: Do I look like someone I trust today? Do I look like someone I want to be?
But the mirror can’t answer that either.
It doesn’t know who I used to be.
It doesn’t know who I’m trying to become.
I remember being a teenager, staring into the mirror like it was a judge. A brutal one. I believed everything it said then. If the mirror said I was ugly, I didn’t go out. If it said I looked okay, I still didn't believe it, but I’d take what I could get. I used to think the mirror was smarter than me—objective, neutral, reliable.
Now I know better.
The mirror is only honest within limits. It reflects what’s on me, not what’s in me. It shows skin, but not soul.
And sometimes—this part is hard to explain—it doesn’t even show me at all.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I go missing.
I don’t recognize who’s looking back.
I become a stranger in my own gaze.
But once in a while, if I’m lucky, I catch a moment—fleeting, almost mythic—where I see myself. Not just a version. Not just an outfit.
Me.
The girl who survived things.
The woman who’s still rebuilding.
The soft-hearted creature who still believes in wonder, even if she wears black most days.
I see the crooked smile, and I don’t flinch.
I see the scar by my eyebrow and I think of what it cost.
I see my shape—not perfect, not fashionable, not symmetrical—and I remember that I chose this body again today. Chose to dress it. Chose to care for it.
The mirror doesn’t lie.
But it doesn’t tell the whole truth either.
It can’t show my history, or my healing.
It doesn’t remember the nights I cried on the floor in that same sweater.
It doesn’t know how many people I’ve loved—or how many times I’ve had to start over.
It only tells me what I look like.
Never who I am.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because the full truth?
That’s something I carry.
That’s something I wear whether it shows or not.
Thank you for reading. Love. 🥰
