The Woman in the Mirror Is Not My Enemy

This morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror longer than usual.

The sunlight came through the window at an angle that felt almost deliberately cruel.

There they were.

The lines around my eyes.

The crease beside my mouth.

The faint shadows beneath my eyes that no amount of sleep seemed capable of removing.

I leaned closer.

Then closer again.

I pulled the skin beside my cheek upward with two fingers.

For a moment, I looked younger.

I laughed.

“What are you doing?” I asked my reflection.

She didn't answer.

Of course she didn't.

But I knew exactly what she was saying.

You can't hold it there forever.

I let go.

The skin returned to where it belonged.

And somehow, that tiny movement made me sad.

Not because I had wrinkles.

Because I realized how much time I had spent believing that wrinkles were something I had to apologize for.

The War With Time

I remember being twenty-five and thinking thirty was old.

At thirty, I thought forty was old.

At forty, I started negotiating with fifty.

Now I understand something frightening.

There was never a magical age at which I would finally feel like an adult.

There was only today.

And every “today” quietly became yesterday.

When I was young, I thought aging happened to other people.

My mother.

My teachers.

The woman at the supermarket.

The neighbor with silver hair.

Not me.

I was going to remain exactly as I was.

Young.

Energetic.

Beautiful.

Then one morning, I noticed a gray hair.

I pulled it out.

Another appeared.

I pulled that one out too.

Soon I realized I was fighting an army with tweezers.

And the army had time on its side.

The Business of Feeling Inadequate

There is an entire industry waiting to remind women like me that we are not doing enough.

Not enough cream.

Not enough exercise.

Not enough collagen.

Not enough vitamins.

Not enough sleep.

Not enough water.

Not enough treatments.

Every advertisement seems to whisper:

You could look better.

And sometimes that whisper becomes:

You should look better.

So I bought things.

Serums.

Creams.

Masks.

Oils.

Things with names I couldn't pronounce and promises I couldn't verify.

I stood in front of shelves filled with tiny bottles and enormous claims.

“Restore.”

“Renew.”

“Reverse.”

“Erase.”

Erase.

That word always bothered me.

Why should I erase my life?

Every line on my face came from somewhere.

Some were created by laughter.

Some by worry.

Some by years of squinting into sunlight.

Some by nights when I cried quietly because I didn't want anyone to know.

Some were probably created simply because I smiled too much.

Why would I want to erase all of that?

The Photograph

The mirror is kind.

A photograph is not.

At least, that's what I used to believe.

I could look into the mirror and convince myself that I hadn't changed very much.

Then someone would take a photograph at a family gathering.

I'd see it later.

And my first thought would be:

Who is that woman?

I would zoom in.

Then zoom out.

I'd examine my face as though I were investigating a crime scene.

Eventually, I'd put the phone down.

The woman in the photograph wasn't a stranger.

She was me.

I just wasn't used to seeing myself from the outside.

One day, I looked at an old photograph of myself at twenty-two.

I stared at that girl for a long time.

She had smooth skin.

Thick hair.

A ridiculous amount of confidence.

And absolutely no idea how beautiful she was.

I wanted to reach through the photograph and tell her something.

Stop worrying so much.

You are going to miss this face someday.

Then I realized something.

Someday, I might look at the face I have today and feel exactly the same way.

What I Actually Fear

Maybe I don't fear wrinkles.

Maybe I fear becoming invisible.

There is a strange message society sends to women as they age:

You may still exist, but you are no longer supposed to demand attention.

Be quieter.

Dress appropriately.

Act your age.

Accept your place.

But I don't want to disappear.

I still want to laugh loudly.

I still want to learn something completely new.

I still want to fall in love with ideas.

I still want to dress up for no reason.

I still want someone to notice me when I walk into a room.

Not because I look twenty-five.

Because I am alive.

The Woman I See Now

This evening, I stood in front of the mirror again.

The same face was waiting.

The same lines.

The same gray hair.

But something was different.

I didn't pull my skin back.

I didn't inspect every wrinkle.

I didn't search for a younger version of myself hiding underneath.

I simply looked.

Really looked.

And for the first time, I saw the woman rather than the years.

She looked tired.

She looked happy.

She looked worried.

She looked experienced.

She looked unfinished.

And, strangely enough, she looked beautiful.

Not because she had defeated aging.

Because she had survived it.

I touched the mirror.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

I wasn't sure whether I was apologizing to myself or to the younger woman I had spent years trying to become again.

Then I smiled.

The woman in the mirror smiled back.

She had wrinkles.

She had gray hair.

She had a thousand stories.

And for once, I didn't ask her to change.

I simply said:

“Let's see what happens next.”