The Mirror

The Mirror's Gaze

Sometimes, a mirror can do more than show you what you look like—it can show you how you feel. I discovered this in my early teens, during that confusing time when puberty hits and your body, mind, and emotions seem to conspire against you. One cold winter day when I was 13, in the quiet of my father’s church, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and didn’t like what I saw.

I remember it vividly: blotchy skin, puffy eyes, and a strange haircut that looked even worse in that harsh light. Until that moment, I had always thought of myself as a good-looking kid. But on that day, the mirror told me something different, and for the first time, I wondered if something was wrong with me. It’s funny, thinking back, because it wasn’t just the mirror—it was puberty. Everyone goes through it, but when you’re in the middle of it, it feels like you’re the only one. That day marked the beginning of what they now call body dysmorphia for me.

Around that time, my allergies—or was it depression?—started acting up. I say "allergies" because that’s what I thought it was. My eyes were constantly puffy, my nose red and irritated. Years later, a doctor would tell me it was depression all along. But at 13, who knows? Maybe it was both. Either way, it’s when my love-hate relationship with mirrors truly began.

At home, in the right lighting, I could trick myself into thinking I looked fine—normal, even. But department stores were another story. Those harsh fluorescent lights showed me a puffy, blotchy face I didn’t recognize, and I’d avoid mirrors like the plague. The worst part? No one knew. I kept it all to myself, quietly wrestling with my reflection for years. Teasing friends didn’t help either. My neighbor, Tony, who had a crush on my sister, once asked me, “Why is your sister so pretty and you’re so ugly?” Ha, ha, Tony.

I remember another incident when my youth group went on a trip to a nearby church. I hadn’t gone, but when they returned, they excitedly told me they had seen a girl who looked exactly like me. I was mortified. I was late to the ball of puberty—shorter than most of my friends—and while I tried to hide my insecurities about my masculinity, moments like that cut deep. I went home, stood in front of my nemesis—the mirror—and tried to change my hair, hoping for something that made me look more like a man.

Long hair was the style back then in the early seventies, and I had my fair share of it. It curled up in the back, a little unruly, a little too feminine, I thought. My dad didn’t help either. He quipped once, “Do you want to be a boy or a girl?” It stung, but I brushed it off—at least on the outside.

It wasn’t just the bathroom or bedroom mirrors that haunted me; they were everywhere. In the reflection of tinted outdoor windows, I’d catch glimpses of myself, adjusting my hair or scrutinizing my appearance. Even knives became an object of reflection, distorting my image enough that I could only focus on one part of my face. It was an obsession, really. Public mirrors were to be avoided, but in private, I was seductively drawn to them.

This phase lasted longer than I’d like to admit. Puberty eventually passed, and I got myself a steady girlfriend. That helped, sure, but the mirror never quite lost its grip on me. Even today, after all these years, I still give myself a quick once-over before heading out in public. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

The mirror, once a mocking presence in my life, has become something of a barometer. If I look good, I must feel good, right? And if I don’t, well, it’s probably a bad day. There’s no grand lesson here, no deep message to take away from this story. But when I think about the pain that the mirror caused me, how it warped my self-image, I realize I haven’t fully let it go. Maybe I never will.

But I suppose, in a way, that’s okay.