The Man in the Mirror

He's always there when I arrive— waiting, with my face but not my certainty. I show him the version I've rehearsed: shoulders back, jaw set, the posture of a man who knows where he's going. He doesn't buy it. He sees the tired eyes I've learned to explain away as "busy." He sees the gray hair I call "distinguished" because "old" is a word I'm not ready for. Everyone else gets the curated version. The mirror gets the manuscript— unedited, full of crossed-out lines and margins crowded with doubt. I used to hate him— this man who wouldn't let me lie to myself. Now I understand: he's the only one who tells the truth without being asked. If you want to change the world, start here. Start with this man. Start with the gap between who you are at the mirror and who you pretend to be when you turn away. The reflection cannot lie. It can only show you what you've become and dare you— quietly, without judgment— to become something closer to what you meant.