stranger in my home

woman in mirror
János Vaszary via Wikimedia Commons

There’s a stranger living in my bathroom. She’s there when I get out of the shower every morning. Her furtive glances catch my eye, but I quickly look away. I don’t like the array of emotions I see play across her face. This is not a woman I know, not the woman I expect to see.

She’s disappointed with the body she sees. She doesn’t mind the gray hair, the sunspots on the once pretty face, the softening of the jawline. But that body, how did that happen?

I try so hard not to look directly in her tear-filled eyes, for I will feel helpless. I see sadness, heartache, loneliness. But it’s not what you think, because I’m certain there are people who love her.  But I am not one of them. I have no idea how to give her the acceptance and love she needs to heal.

8 thoughts on “stranger in my home

  1. I think I get it. As a 58-year-old who until a few injuries 15 years ago, was a marathon runner and competitive tennis player, the combination of 15 years and lack of ability to exercise without pain, I don’t revel in the mirror image, but it’s the body I got. As Zig Ziglar said, “If you can’t change the facts, you can always change the attitude”. I know that is easier said than done.

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