The Mirror Doesn’t Lie
On losing myself, finding fragments again, and realizing even Housewives don’t always know who they are.
Have you ever had one of those mornings where you look in the mirror and realize you have absolutely no idea who the fuck is staring back at you? No receipts, no clues, just pale skin, a few extra lines, and a version of me I barely recognize. If life were graded, I’d be sitting at a D-. And just like Teresa in season 1 RHONJ, I’m ready to flip the table and climb my way back to an A+
Welcome to my present day.
This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up with that gut-punch of disorientation. In my early 20s, I spiraled in ways from being corrupted and that felt jarring and self-sabotaging. Then own my own accord I found The Real Housewives, and of course bingeing Housewives became my favorite obsession. On top of, overeating, shopping, and moving. I was running away from what hurt me and toward whatever I thought would fix it. Looking back, it was all impulse dressed up as decision making. But really, it was me flailing with no discernment.
Only now do I see the pattern. That chaos came in the wake of a traumatic event: I’d been hit by a drunk driver. I wasn’t even behind the wheel… I was in a taxi, just two blocks from home, but the impact landed far deeper than metal on metal. (That story is one I’ll revisit later.)
Back then, losing myself looked loud… dramatic moves, visible mistakes, choices that made people raise their eyebrows. Now?
It’s subtler. A new life. A husband. Different griefs, different characters in my orbit. I don’t pack up my whole apartment on impulse anymore. Yet, I am finding myself back in a pattern that is mimicking my early 20’s. Now in my late 30s, 18 years later, the pattern’s still there. The urge to fill up with food. The belief that shopping will make me whole. Zillow tabs open late at night, picturing myself somewhere else. And yes, I binge Real Housewives marathons like they’re prescription medicine, convincing myself that re-watching RHONY scary island is somehow self-care. (Spoiler: it’s anesthesia, not therapy.)
You think you’ve outgrown it, outpaced it, but trauma reroutes itself through the inner body system. Sometimes it shows up in overeating, sometimes in overspending, sometimes in overthinking. Sometimes it shows up as another reunion episode because at least their chaos is louder than mine.
Maybe we’re supposed to get lost and crumble every once in a while to validate, to course-correct, or to rebuild. Sometimes I feel grateful I don’t have a child to schlep along on this ride, and other times I wonder if that would’ve been the anchor to keep me steady in my 20’s, but I was scared the people around me would judge me. According to my Pattern app, I’m due for another “life-shakening” in 15–19 years. Oy. That one might break me or turn me into Ramona Singer doing turtle time (I hope the later).
And that’s the thing about identity it isn’t one solid answer you find and keep forever. It shapeshifts with every loss, every joy, every impact that knocks the wind out of you. I know the facts of my life: my name, my job, my relationships, but those same things also trigger the deepest insecurities born from childhood: a self-absorbed alcoholic mother, a distanced father, untrustworthy siblings, and judgmental family friends.
If you’ve ever felt like you were living your own life on autopilot, for others, only to suddenly crash into consciousness and wonder where the hell you went… I see you.
These mirror moments can feel terrifying, but maybe they’re also invitations. Invitations to pause, to sift through what’s been running the show in the background, and to choose differently this time.
The mirror doesn’t lie and I’m learning to meet whoever I see there lost or found with a little more space to not know who the fuck I am. And if all else fails, I’ll take my lessons from the Housewives: sometimes you just need a tagline, a glass of wine, and the courage to film another season.
Fuck off-
C