The mirror that knows me

I moved our old mirror out of the boys room before I painted. Justin slid it in the nook behind our door, behind the laundry basket. Later that night, I walked by and saw myself in it and felt at home. I felt alive. I felt seen by myself. 

In our Kentucky home, that mirror lived on a wall in our bedroom for years. I took outfit selfies in it. I took selfies for social media and listed what I was going to do that day. (It was a different era then.) I took selfies that included some or all of the boys. I saw myself in a life that was designed for the flourishing of my children and the mirror saw me find flourishing in that life too.

That mirror has seen pregnancies, boots on my broken ankles (yes, two of them), tiny newborns nestled again my chest. It’s seen the low weight I dropped to after I had surgery after giving birth to my last baby. That mirror has seen Greek practice, podcast recording, quiet moments when my boys were sleeping. 

When we moved to Lynchburg, we hung the mirror in the nook behind our door. I could close the door and take my outfit picture. I could check my clothes, see myself. Then a year after we moved in, we all moved rooms. It was a day of musical chairs, squeezing stacks of belongings into the hallway, taking apart bunk beds, hastily painting the smallest room. The mirror didn’t move. The only time I used it was when I was trying an outfit and I didn’t know if I liked it. I’d walk in for a quick glance and then leave. It didn’t seem important. 

But that first glimpse when it was tucked back behind our door told me that it was. In fact, I saw myself again, a slightly older version of a friend that I knew. I still liked her. She’s still there. I want to show up for her flourishing as well.