Still Becoming: The Woman in the Mirror

This week, something shifted.

It wasn't dramatic. No lightning bolt. No sudden revelation. Just a quiet convergence of moments that made me stop and really look at the woman staring back at me in the mirror.

Early this week, I stumbled across a clip from Wallo267 that stopped me mid-scroll. It was timely since I have been preparing for a session with the HeartSmarts community, and I was revisiting our conversation about the Accountability Mirror.

And then, tucked in my wallet where it has lived for years, I found a letter from my mom. A letter reminding me of who she saw in me. Who she believed I could become.

Three different threads, all pointing to the same question: What do you see when you look at yourself?

For most of us, the answer isn't kind. The mirror becomes a courtroom. We stand before it and deliver verdicts: too old, too tired, not enough, falling behind. We catalog every flaw, every failure, every way we haven't measured up to some imaginary standard we set for ourselves decades ago.

Not today.

Today, I looked in the mirror and I saw who I really am. I smiled. And I gave myself a high five. I lifted myself up.

David Goggins popularized the concept of the Accountability Mirror. His version is raw and unflinching: stand in front of the mirror, call yourself out, confront the hard truths you've been avoiding. Write your goals on Post-it notes and stick them to the glass. Hold yourself accountable every single day.

There is power in that approach. Radical honesty has its place. But I have been thinking about what happens when we only use the mirror to tear ourselves down. When self-accountability becomes self-flagellation. When the voice in our head sounds less like a coach and more like a bully.

What if radical honesty also means seeing our strength? What if accountability includes acknowledging how far we've come, not just how far we have to go?

Wallo267 spent twenty years in and out of the prison system before rebuilding his life into something extraordinary. His message resonates because he doesn't pretend the hard parts didn't happen. He doesn't sugarcoat the struggle. But he also refuses to let his past define his ceiling. He looks in the mirror and sees someone capable of becoming.

The mirror doesn't just reflect your face. It reflects every story you've ever told yourself about who you are.

Here is the thing about those stories: we get to edit them. We get to decide which ones we keep telling and which ones have expired. The narrative that served you at twenty-nine might be holding you hostage at fifty-nine. The criticism you internalized from someone else's mouth does not have to live in yours.

I carry a letter from my mom in my wallet. It's been there so long the creases have become soft, the paper worn thin at the folds. Sometimes, I forget it's there. And then I find it again, exactly when I need to.

This week was one of those times.

My mom saw something in me before I could find it in myself. She wrote about the woman she believed I could become. Not the perfect woman. Not the woman who had it all figured out. The woman who kept trying. The woman who got back up. The woman who used her gifts to lift others.

Reading her words again, I realized something profound: the people who love us often see us more clearly than we see ourselves. They aren't blinded by our inner critic. They are not keeping score of our failures. They see the whole person, the one we sometimes forget exists beneath the weight of our self-judgment.

I am still trying to become the woman my parents encouraged me to be. Not because I'm not enough as I am, but because becoming is the work of a lifetime. It doesn't end when you hit a certain age or achieve a certain milestone. It's not a destination. It's a direction.

Maybe you have a letter like mine. Maybe it's a voicemail you've saved, or a memory of something someone said to you when you needed it most (I saved screenshots of my Dad's text messages to me). Maybe it's a coach, a mentor, a friend who saw your potential when you couldn't. Those voices matter. They're data points, just as valid as the critical ones. More valid, maybe, because they come from people who actually know you.

Mel Robbins wrote an entire book about what happens when you high-five yourself in the mirror. It sounds ridiculous until you try it. Until you stand there, look yourself in the eyes, and raise your hand to meet your reflection.

The research behind it is fascinating. High fives are neurologically wired to positive associations. Since childhood, we've connected that gesture with celebration, encouragement, and the message: I believe in you. When we turn that gesture toward ourselves, our brains don't reject it the way they might reject a spoken affirmation we don't believe. The physical act bypasses the skeptical mind.

But here's what struck me most: the hard part isn't the high five. The hard part is looking.

So many of us avoid our own reflection. We glance quickly, check for something out of place, and look away before we have to really see. We're practicing rejection without even realizing it. Every day, dozens of small moments where we refuse to meet our own eyes.

What would change if we practiced something different?

This morning, I tried it. Not as a performance. Not for anyone else. Just me, in my bathroom, after my workout. I looked at the woman in the mirror. I saw the lines that weren't there ten years ago. I saw the strength in my shoulders and my back. I saw someone who has weathered things she never thought she would survive. And I smiled at her. I raised my hand. I gave her the encouragement I'd freely give anyone else.

I am still becoming.

That sentence used to feel like an admission of failure. Like I should have arrived somewhere by now. Like there was a finish line I kept missing.

Now I understand it differently. Still becoming is the point. It means I'm still in motion. Still learning. Still growing. Still willing to be shaped by what life brings. The alternative, being finished, means I've stopped growing and stopped learning. And I'm not interested in stopping.

I am still becoming. And like you, I am never finished.

Let me be honest with you: the bumps on the road hurt. They do. Some of them knock the wind out of you. Some of them make you question everything. There have been seasons where I wondered if I had any fight left.

But here's what I've learned. When I look in the mirror after those moments, I don't ask "Why me?" That question is a dead end. It leads nowhere useful. It keeps you stuck in the wreckage instead of finding the road forward.

The better question is "What now?" What's the next step? What can I control? What's the smallest action I can take today to move in the direction I want to go?

I can figure out the path forward. I've done it before. I'll do it again. And so can you.

Tomorrow morning, you will stand in front of a mirror. Maybe while brushing your teeth. Maybe getting ready for work. Maybe in a moment when no one else is watching.

And when you're there, you will have a choice.

You can do what you've always done. The quick glance. The mental inventory of flaws. The critical voice that's become so familiar you barely notice it anymore.

Or you can try something different.

Stop. Look. Actually see the person standing there. See someone who is trying. Someone who has survived things. Someone who is still in the arena, still showing up, still becoming.

Then do what I did. Smile at that person. Raise your hand. Give them the high five they deserve. Give them the encouragement you'd give your best friend, your daughter, your mother, your partner or someone else you love.

It might feel ridiculous. Just do it anyway.

It might bring up emotions you weren't expecting. Let them come.

You are still becoming. You are never finished. And the woman in the mirror deserves someone in her corner.

Let that someone be you.