People say mirrors don’t lie, but I learned the hard way that isn’t entirely true. For a long time, I felt trapped in a reflection that wasn’t my own. It all started during my sophomore year in college. I was an average student, neither exceptional nor struggling, balancing my time between classes, friends, and a part-time job. Life felt simple back then, manageable even. But it all changed after one winter break when I got back to campus with a strange sense of discomfort that lingered around me.
Everything seemed to start from a particular evening, when I stood in front of the mirror in my dorm room. The general malaise I had been experiencing crystallized into something more tangible. What struck me wasn’t a newfound wrinkle or change in my appearance; it was the way my eyes seemed to betray a stranger—a person I didn’t recognize.
Initially, I brushed it off as stress-induced. After all, exams were looming, and my workload was mounting. But as days turned into weeks, the feeling persisted. More disconcertingly, my friends and family seemed unaware of the struggles I faced. They saw my exterior, navigated my smiles and small talk, but no one seemed to notice the battle raging inside. I felt like an actor trapped in a play, desperately trying to remember lines of a script I hadn’t read.
I couldn’t escape it. Every morning, the mirror waited like a silent judge as I mechanically went through the motions of dressing and grooming, my reflection a constant reminder of this growing disconnect. Each glance showed slight differences in how my features aligned, and this perception chipped away at my psyche. People say not to trust a single angle, yet every angle betrayed me.
I started isolating myself. Social gatherings felt unbearable, and familiar faces became unsettling. Other students gathered in the cafeteria, engrossed in laughter and chatter, voices buzzing around the room while I picked at my food, captive to introspection. I began missing classes, unable to muster the energy to listen to lectures or partake in discussions. My grades slipped, and I could feel the cold, lingering fog of academic probation looming.
Withdrawing further, I stopped contacting friends. Their concerned messages and missed calls piled up like debris I couldn’t bring myself to clear. Regular visits home became sporadic, and even when I was there, I turned reclusive. At dinner, I’d find solace in my food instead of conversation, my parents exchanging worried glances, unsure how to reach me. Still, they hoped it was just a phase.
It wasn’t. Months passed, and the aching void only widened. I knew I needed help, but the shame of admitting it paralyzed me. If those closest to me couldn’t see my struggles, how could I convince strangers that something was wrong?
Eventually, the pivotal moment came from a chance encounter—a student counselor noticed my absence from extracurriculars, an inexplicable dip in performance, and recognized signs I’d carefully hidden. She reached out to me during a quiet afternoon. The conversation was awkward and uncomfortable, yet it brought relief I hadn’t anticipated. Someone finally understood. Her insight gave me the courage to attempt therapy, though I feared being judged. But therapy was the first real step toward reclaiming my reflection.
Slowly, I peeled away layers of self-imposed isolation, unveiling emotions so deeply buried I almost forgot they existed. It was far from easy. The process forced me to face uncomfortable truths, confronting feelings of inadequacy that held me hostage. There were tears—many tears—and frustration, nights spent replaying sessions, questioning progress. But the mirror in therapy did not lie; it showed me healing, bit by bit.
Ironically, my relationship with my literal mirror changed, too. It didn’t wield the same power over me anymore. Instead of dreading the sight of my reflection, I began to search for familiar glimpses of warmth and truth. Small affirmations slowly seeped into my consciousness, reshaping how I viewed myself. The stranger in the mirror became a person I started to care about, not a facade to run from.
The turning point was realizing it was okay if healing took time—that it didn’t matter if no one else understood as long as I was willing to understand myself. I learned to forgive myself for not being perfect. Forgiveness extended beyond introspection, slowly bridging the gap with friends and family, who never intentionally ignored my plight but simply didn’t know what was happening. Reconnection didn’t happen overnight, but mutual patience allowed us to begin again.
Now, each day feels like a small achievement. I take time to acknowledge this journey and the strength it required—a strength I never knew I possessed. My message to anyone who feels trapped within, who sees someone unrecognizable in the mirror, is this: You’re not alone, and your reflection isn’t static. Unlike glass, human experiences are malleable, evolving with love, time, and effort.
I’m not entirely free from the doubts the mirror once cast, but I’m no longer chained to a reflection I can’t escape. I have learned to embrace change, understanding that what I see is just one part of a complex, resilient individual. The mirror will never again hold the final say over who I am or who I will become.
