To the Girl in the Mirror

I remember looking through the window of our apartment balcony, watching kids play soccer and table tennis at the playground. Thoughts of whether I should stay home and watch TV or join the crowd went back and forth in my mind. What if I feel left out again? What if I embarrass myself again? What if I try to blend in and miss the mark—AGAIN?

Nine times out of ten, I would choose to stay home. I wish I could just change myself to fit the occasion sometimes. That would make my life so much easier. Facing my 13-year-old self—who barely knew who she was or where she was going—felt like my most difficult assignment, one I always wanted to procrastinate.

As I moved from place to place, I always thought it would be a new beginning, that things would change naturally. I remember leaving South Africa heartbroken, thinking of all the great friends I might never see again as we spread out across the world to pursue our degrees. Three months later, I was on a flight to the U.S. to start a new phase of life. Being on my own at the brink of adulthood was daunting, but I felt a nervous excitement about meeting new people and building new connections.

I was lucky enough to have a single room during my freshman year of college. I printed pictures of my high school friends and hung them around my room so that every morning, they would be the first thing I saw. But as time passed, I found myself packing the pictures into an envelope—not because I stopped caring about my high school friends, but because I realized I had to move on, just as everyone else did. The “moving on” part, though, was where my feet constantly got stuck. I wanted to let go, yet I didn’t want to let go at the same time.

My two next-door roommates were the closest friends I had in college. We did most things together—even shared some classes. Yet, my heart didn’t seem to want to get too close. Why should I? We’ll part ways eventually, right?

And so we did. We enjoyed our freshman year together, but later, as we moved to different dorms and took different classes, we grew distant. Four years went by quickly, and again, I had to say goodbye to the few friends I had made. As I threw my graduation cap into the air and packed my bags to move out of my senior dorm, that same rush of uncertainty and nostalgia hit me. But this time, it was less daunting. I felt more confident about facing this new phase of life. I had a better sense of self—one that grew as I acknowledged my struggle with letting go and made the effort to do so without looking back.

Where am I going with this? Good question.

All I am trying to say is that, as I experienced these sudden shifts in my life’s trajectory, I realized how much I value connection—but also how much I fear loss. Both are inevitable. I gain some, I lose others. Yet, there is this desire for eternity that motivates me to keep going. The pain of loss can feel unbearable, but with time, it heals. As I learned to swallow the bitter reality and remain hopeful for a better tomorrow, I found reasons to smile and try again. That muscle is still weak, but I am working it out every day.

So now, 14 years down the line, I look at that same girl in the mirror, and I am proud of her. She is more mature, more self-aware—yet still learning.