The Mirror’s Edge
Stand up straight, dear. Smile More
I stand before the mirror, a familiar stranger. The glass is cool against my fingertips, but the reflection burns.
Who is this woman staring back at me?
A collage of expectations, a whole list of of should-be’s and could-have-beens run through my head. I am a canvas painted by a thousand hands, none of them my own.
“Oh she has curly hair, unlike our side — all straight and beautiful.” I could still hear my aunt’s voice in my head.
I straighten my spine, curve my lips. A smile formed. The reflection smiles back, a perfect look. I looked at my reflection on the mirror, my eyes gradually moved down to my legs.
“Oh, your thighs are so thick”… I closed my eyes and everything darkened. I tried to brush the thought away.
I remember being ten, sprawled on the living room floor, flipping through pages and pages of magazines. Glossy pages filled with women who seemed to float through life, sharp collarbones, miles and miles of legs. I traced their outlines with reverent fingers, wondering if I could pour myself into their shapes. Would I finally be seen then? Really seen? Or would I simply disappear, another faceless body in a sea of perfection?
The mirror blurs.
I am twenty now, standing in a cramped dressing room, harsh fluorescent lights exposing every perceived flaw. The dress doesn’t fit. I don’t fit.
A saleswoman’s voice drifts over the partition: “Have you tried sucking it in, honey?”
I suck in my breath, my dreams, my very self. The fabric strains against my curves, curves that refuse to conform to the lines society demands. I feel my body betraying me, or am I betraying my body?
Whose reflection is this, anyway? A funhouse mirror, distorting and warping. Society’s fun house, where women are moulded and shaped to fit into neat little boxes. Sexy but not slutty. Ambitious but not bitchy.
Be yourself, but not like that. Be strong, but not too strong. Be smart, but don’t intimidate. Be career-driven, but don’t neglect your family. The contradictions pile up, a tower of impossibilities that threatens to topple and crush me.
I press my forehead against the mirror, closing my eyes. In the darkness, I feel the weight of generations of women who’ve stood here before me. Their whispers blend with the voices of media big names, fashion designers, well-meaning relatives. A whole lot of expectations.
I hear the sharp tones of my school coach, pushing me to be faster, stronger, leaner. I hear the smooth, seductive voice of every advertisement I have ever seen, promising that happiness is just one product away. I hear a faraway voice, telling me to find a good man, to learn to cook his favourite meals. Telling me to be a good and dutiful wife and mother. I hear my grandmother’s accent telling me to be independent. My grandfather added, “Be strong. Learn to be strong”.
Then… there is another voice, a faint voice. It has been there all along, buried under layers of societal noise. A whisper at first, barely audible. But as I listen, really listen, it seem to grow stronger.
I open my eyes, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Who are you?”.
“Who do you want to be?”
The questions hang in the air, heavy with possibility and fear. Because what if, after peeling back all these layers of expectations, I find nothing underneath? What if I am nothing more than the sum of others’ desires?
A love for music that was dismissed as impractical. A passion that was deemed unfeminine. A desire for solitude that was labeled antisocial. Piece by piece, I was reassembled to what is now called myself.
But I am more than a reflection… I am the one who defines.
I trace the outline of my face in the mirror, feeling the power in my fingertips. I am back to the time when I was sixteen. I continued to trace myself. With each touch, I reclaim a part of myself. I was twelve. My unruly hair, a rebellion against sleek perfection. My strong hands, capable of both tender caresses and changing the world. My eyes, filled with a fire that refuses to be dimmed.
I think of the little girls who will come after me, who will stand where I stand now. What world will they see reflected back at them? Can they shape that reflection, make it kinder, more accepting?
I am not just a reflection. I am the mirror itself. The truth is my own making.
