The Mirror and the Missing Self

Who are we, really?

It’s a question that sneaks in between the noise—when the world quiets, and all that’s left is the weight of our own thoughts. Sometimes I wonder if we’re all just walking around lost, wearing pieces of ourselves we never meant to try on. Versions shaped by survival, by seasons, by other people’s expectations.

And I find myself asking—

What version of me will be the one that fits best?

Not the one that was the most praised, or the most put-together, or the one that made the fewest waves. But the one that feels like truth.

Because the truth is all I’m comfortable with now.

But even that’s complicated. Some days, I’m not sure I’d recognize her—the truest me—if she stood right in front of me. Life has a way of sculpting us whether we agree or not. Every stage leaves its mark. Some versions of ourselves arrive out of necessity, not choice. And somewhere in that shifting, I started to lose the shape of who I was becoming.

Now, I look into the mirror and all I want is to see her—the most genuine side of myself. The part of me that is not striving, not performing, just being. But often, the mirror reflects back something that feels more like a challenge than a welcome.

It says: “Good luck with that.”

And maybe that’s what haunts me.

The idea that the person I’ve always strived to become might’ve gone dormant—or worse, maybe she never existed at all. A figment I chased. A version I invented to make the world make sense.

Yet, strangely enough, the people who know me—truly know me—they claim they see me. They speak of my light. My soul. My kindness. And I believe them. I do. But when I stand before the mirror, that same reflection blurs. I feel invisible to myself.

Whoever it was that invented that mirror to begin with should have left it to God.

Maybe only God knows who we truly are.

Maybe only He sees the soul underneath all the trying, the performing, the protecting.

Maybe only He remembers the version of us before the world got its hands on us—before disappointment shaped our posture, before survival altered our voice, before we traded wonder for weariness.

Because when I look in the mirror, I see remnants. Glimpses.

A shadow of who I was, mixed with flashes of who I hope to be.

But rarely do I see someone complete to my measure.

Maybe we were never meant to define ourselves by glass and reflection.

Maybe it was always supposed to be by Spirit and truth.

When I close my eyes, I sometimes catch her—

the one God still sees in full.

She doesn’t flinch at her flaws.

She carries both ache and light.

She knows she’s loved even in the unfinished parts.

What does it mean to be seen by others, but not by yourself?

Maybe invisibility isn’t the absence of being…

Maybe it’s the shedding of all that isn’t.

Maybe, just maybe, being unseen in the mirror means we’re closer to becoming something unfiltered, something not yet framed.

So today, I’m not chasing a version of me.

I’m sitting quietly beside whatever remains.

And I’m whispering to her:

“I know you’re in there. I’m ready when you are.”

Whoever you are!