The Stranger in the Mirror

When I look in the mirror, I no longer see myself. A stranger looks back, familiar yet unrecognisable. The reflection shows a face drained of life, a smile that is rehearsed, and eyes that silently beg for relief. I am trapped in a body that no longer feels like my own.

It’s like I’m standing outside my body, watching my life unfold without me. The thrill-seeking girl who once chased adventure now only chases relief. The social butterfly who thrived on meeting new people now struggles to find the energy to hold a conversation. The independent girl who once prided herself on doing everything alone now depends on her family for the most basic of things. Somewhere along the way, her laughter faded, her spark dimmed, and her heart feels dead inside.

There are moments when the only peace I know is unconsciousness, when pain loosens its grip for a fleeting while. But even that release is short-lived. My body jerks me awake, burning me from the inside out, and I chase the nothingness, the silence, until the cycle repeats again. I have begged doctors to amputate my legs, to free me from the relentless torment. But this disease is more than that. It runs through my body; it’s in the fabric of who I am. The very tissue meant to hold me together is the same force that’s tearing me apart.

As the eldest sister, I’ve spent my life fixing things, solving problems, holding everything and everyone together. My identity is built on rationality, on finding solutions where others see obstacles. But now, my biggest problem is the one I cannot control. Every morning, I wake up with the hope that today I’ll study, I’ll work, I’ll get out of bed and rebuild the pieces of my life. But then the realisation hits that it’s not effort or motivation I’m lacking; it’s control. No matter how much I want to move forward, I can’t. I’m trapped in a situation I never chose, imprisoned in a body that won’t listen. I want so desperately to fix my life, to fix me — but how do you fix something unfixable?

And so, I’m trying to learn to live in uncertainty. To find meaning in survival. To accept that some battles are not fought to be won, but to be endured.

The stranger in the mirror still stares back at me. Some days I look away quickly, unable to face her hollow eyes; other days I find myself searching for traces of who I used to be, the girl who lived without fear of her own body. But she’s gone, or maybe she’s hiding somewhere deep beneath the pain. I don’t know anymore.

Sometimes my eyes silently whisper to her; the girl in the glass, asking if she still remembers what it felt like to run, to enjoy life, to wake up without pain. She doesn’t answer. She just stares back with those tired, pleading eyes, as if she’s waiting for me to recognise her again.

Maybe one day I will. But for now, we just look at each other, two strangers sharing the same body, both waiting for a life that used to be ours.