Dear Martin,
You’ll laugh when you read this, because you of all people know how much I hated mirrors.
For years I kept the one in my bathroom covered with an old blue towel. I shaved by touch, combed my hair by memory, and avoided shop windows like they were judgmental strangers. It wasn’t superstition. It was discomfort. Every time I caught my reflection, I felt as if I were being evaluated by someone I didn’t entirely trust.
I preferred the version of myself I carried in my head. He stood straighter. He looked certain. He did not hesitate before speaking.
Then, three months ago, the towel slipped.
I had just moved into the new apartment, and in the chaos of unpacking I forgot my old habit. After a shower, I looked up and there I was. Not the heroic figure from imagination, not a critic either. Just a tired man with honest eyes and a crooked collar.
I don’t know how to explain it properly. Nothing magical happened. The glass did not flatter me. But it didn’t accuse me either. It simply showed me what was there. And for the first time, I felt something close to alignment. The person in my head and the one in the mirror began negotiating, instead of avoiding each other.
That morning I adjusted my collar. I met my own gaze. I thought, “All right. Let’s work with this.”
It changed my orientation in life quite literally. I stopped walking with my eyes down. I paid attention. I corrected small things. I forgave larger ones. Reflection became less about appearance and more about acknowledgment.
You’ll appreciate the irony: I now run a small company that distributes mirrors. Not the ornate, gilded kind alone, though we sell those too. I specialize in simple, clear glass well-made, honest pieces. I tell customers that a good mirror is not there to judge you. It is there to introduce you to yourself.
Some of them laugh. Some of them understand immediately.
I still don’t stare at my reflection for long stretches. But every morning, I look. And every morning, I nod to the man who looks back, as if we’ve agreed to keep trying.
Strange, isn’t it, how the thing we avoid can quietly become our work?
Yours,
Elias