“The Woman in the Mirror: A Love Letter to Myself”

Trigger Warning: Discussion of emotional abuse and narcissistic relationships

I found myself frozen in my bathroom the other morning, really looking at my reflection for the first time in what feels like forever. Not the usual rushed glance while brushing teeth or fixing hair, but actually seeing myself.

God, when did I start looking so… tired? My eyes tell stories of countless silent tears, the defeated slump of my shoulders betraying years of carrying invisible weights. The frown lines that have made themselves at home on my face – battle scars from a war I didn’t even know I was fighting.

Then I did something that broke me wide open – I touched my own cheek. Just a gentle caress, the kind you’d give someone you cherish. And holy shit, I started crying. Just standing there, tears rolling down my face, hand trembling against my cheek, because I suddenly realized no one had touched me like that in years.

Eighteen years of marriage and my husband hasn’t touched my face with tenderness in so long that I can’t even remember the last time. Isn’t that the most heartbreaking thing? Such a simple gesture of love, and I’ve been starving for it.

I was just a kid when I met him – twenty years old and so damn naive. Now, at forty, I’m finally waking up to what love shouldn’t be. He planted his poison in me slowly, steadily:

• “No one else would want you.”
• “I made you fat on purpose so you’d stay.”
• “You’re such a bitch – you’re lucky I put up with you.”
• “You’re a terrible mother.”

And like weeds choking a garden, these toxic thoughts took root until they strangled every ounce of self-worth I had. The most fucked up part? I believed every single word.

Even now, as I’m writing this – and this is so perfectly fucking typical – he’s hovering over me, rushing me because I’m supposed to take our daughter Christmas shopping. “Priorities, Sheena,” he says, making sure our kid hears him shame me. “You can write later. Your daughter should come first.”

This from the man who makes us wait hours while he finishes his precious video game levels or watches his movies. But me? Taking twenty minutes to write while my ADHD brain actually has the words? Obviously, I’m a terrible mother. 🙄

I didn’t even know what narcissistic abuse was back then. Hell, I thought this was normal. Until one day, I learned about it, and my whole world twisted inside out like a pretzel. It was like someone finally handed me the key to a door I’d been banging my head against for years.

The fighting never stopped after that awakening. Well, until last year, when I just… gave up. When it took our friends inviting him to take me to karaoke – something we both loved, but he’d weaponized against me because I didn’t sing as well as him.

When other people had to encourage him to take me on actual dates, But you know what? The facade always faded, and he’d go right back to forgetting I existed unless I screwed something up.

But something beautiful emerged from this darkness. In those quiet moments when I stopped fighting when I stopped begging for his attention, I found myself. And it started with that simple touch in front of the mirror.

Now, every morning and every night, I have a ritual. I stand before that mirror and touch my face with intention and love. I massage my skin, apply lotion like I’m something precious. Trace my lips, my cheeks, my jawline with loving fingers. I look myself in the eyes and say the words I’ve been dying to hear: “You are worthy.” “You are beautiful.” “You are enough.” “You are fucking magnificent.”

And something magical happened – people started noticing a glow about me, not from expensive creams or treatments, but from finally treating myself with the love I deserved all along.

Let me be crystal clear: My ADHD brain works differently. When inspiration strikes, I need to capture it. These words, this healing, this processing – it matters. It’s not just writing; it’s therapy. It’s growth. It’s breaking free from the chains of manipulation that have held me for so long.

This pattern of subtle degradation, of weaponized guilt, of using my children as emotional ammunition – it stops now. My children deserve to see their mother whole, not just as an extension of their father’s demands.

They deserve to see that love doesn’t mean constant sacrifice, that family doesn’t mean losing sight of self. I can buy my own damn flowers (thanks, Miley). I can hold my own hand. And yeah, I can touch my own face with all the tenderness I’ve been craving. I don’t need his love anymore – I’m too busy finding my own.

To anyone reading this who sees themselves in my words: Don’t wait for someone else to show you tenderness. Start with yourself. That woman in the mirror? She’s been waiting for your love all along. Your passions matter. Your voice matters. Your time matters. Don’t let anyone – not even (especially) your children’s father – convince you that taking care of yourself makes you a bad parent.

This isn’t just a blog post anymore. It’s my fucking declaration of independence. My love letter to myself. My promise that I will never again let anyone make me feel small.

Because I’m not small. I’m magnificent. And I’m finally, finally ready to show the world.

And baby, I’m reclaiming it all.