Standards of Reflection

She stands in front of the mirror, her fingers curling around the edge of the sink, knuckles pale from the grip. The bathroom light is harsh, too bright, casting unforgiving shadows across her face. Every morning, it’s the same routine, the same reflection. But today, the silence feels louder, as if the mirror itself is demanding something from her. "Look at yourself," she whispers, her voice tight, low, like she’s afraid to hear it out loud. "Ugly. You know you are. Look at all of it." 

Her eyes trace the contours of her face—round, too round. Her fingers reach up, pressing into her cheeks, trying to mold them into something sharper, something that doesn’t exist beneath the skin. "I wish I could take scissors," she spits, fingers trembling. "Cut all those parts out. All those fatty pieces of your face that swallow your high cheekbones." 

She drops her hands, glaring at her reflection, daring it to disagree. But the mirror stays silent, only offering back the version of herself that she’s learned to hate. “Where are they, huh?” she sneers at the girl in the glass. “Those cheekbones that are supposed to be there? You know the ones—the ones all the models have, those girls plastered everywhere, like they’re carved out of marble, like their bones are made to be seen.” 

She pauses, the words hanging heavy in the air. But there’s a flicker of something in her chest, a contradiction she can’t ignore. "They don’t look like you," she mutters, softer now. "But… maybe they don’t eat like you either. Maybe they don’t starve like you do, counting calories like they’re a currency you’ll never have enough of." Her eyes narrow. “But even then, it’s not enough, is it? I still don’t look like them. No matter how much I cut, how much I shrink.” 

Her gaze drops lower, to her stomach, her hips. Her hand hovers over her belly, and she feels the softness there, like it’s mocking her. “Your stomach. Your thighs. They’re all wrong. You’re too big, too soft. What does the BMI chart say? Overweight? Always overweight.” The word tastes bitter in her mouth, like poison. She’s heard it too many times. From doctors, from health apps, from the glowing numbers on the scale. "Overweight," she says again, with venom this time. “Like you’re a walking failure. Like you didn’t already know. But those charts don’t see how hard you try, do they? They don’t care.” "They say it’s simple, don’t they? Eat less. Move more. Starve yourself quietly. Count every bite, watch every number drop on the scale, but God forbid you show how much it’s killing you." Her voice shakes with rage as she presses her hand harder against her stomach, willing it to flatten, to vanish under the pressure. "You can’t even do that right." 

She thinks of all the images that flood her every day—the women on magazine covers, in ads, on social media. Thin, toned, perfect. They smile like they’ve never known hunger, never known the sting of self-hatred in the mirror. “They’re what you’re supposed to be,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “And you… you’re nothing like them.” "You’re a failure," she hisses at her reflection.  "That’s what you are. A goddamn failure. How many times have you tried? How many diets? How many plans? And still—still—you can’t look like them." 

She swallows hard, feeling the tears prick at her eyes, but she won’t let them fall. Not yet. "It’s everywhere. They’re everywhere. And they tell me I’m not enough. Not thin enough. Not toned enough. Not beautiful enough." Her jaw tightens, fists clenching at her sides. "But they don’t know. They don’t know the cost, do they?" She’s louder now, the words spilling out like she’s been holding them back for years. "They don’t see you pinching your skin, hating every bite of food. They don’t see you in the gym, running until your legs give out, trying to disappear, trying to fit into this box they’ve created." 

She steps closer to the mirror, her breath fogging the glass as her anger boils over. "And for what? For what, huh? For a scale that says you’re always too much? For a mirror that tells you you’ll never be enough?" Her voice is trembling now, her reflection a blur through her tears, but she’s not stopping. Her fists tremble at her sides, and she feels the sting of her nails digging into her palms, but the pain only fuels the anger surging inside her. "It’s never enough." 

Her fists tighten one last time, her entire body trembling with the weight of all the years she’s spent hating herself, of trying to conform to a standard that’s impossible to reach. "Enough," she growls through her teeth. Her breath is quickened, her chest tight with the suffocating rage, but she feels something shift inside her—a fire that’s been buried under the weight of shame for too long. 

Her vision blurs as the tears start to fall, but she doesn’t care. She’s tired. So damn tired. Tired of the hatred, tired of feeling like she has to cut herself down to fit into a mold that was never made for her. Tired of feeling like her worth was tied to the number on a scale or the size of her jeans. 

"You’ll never be enough for them," she whispers, blinking away the tears. "But maybe… maybe it’s not me that’s broken. Maybe it’s them." The thought is quiet, but it pulses in her chest like a heartbeat, growing louder, stronger. "Maybe," she whispers again, "it’s not me." 

Her body quakes with the emotion crashing through her, and before she can stop herself, her fist flies toward the mirror. The glass shatters with a sharp, violent crack, pieces of her reflection scattering across the floor, the years of self-hatred shattering with it. She stands there, breathing hard, her heart pounding in her chest as she stares at the broken pieces of glass. Her reflection is gone, fractured and splintered, and for the first time, she feels something other than hate.  

It’s not freedom—not yet. It’s not acceptance. But it’s something. 

She stares down at the shards of glass at her feet, her chest still heaving with the remnants of her rage, and she whispers, "Maybe… maybe I don’t need to fit." And for the first time, the silence in the room feels comforting.