The other day, I looked in the mirror and froze.
Not because I didn’t like what I saw—
but because I didn’t recognize her.
The eyes were familiar. The skin was soft. The expression was calm.
But something about her felt… distant. Muted. Unnamed.
And then it hit me:
I’ve been so busy surviving, evolving, adapting, performing… I forgot how to just be.
I forgot who I was underneath the layers.
But the mirror?
She wasn’t lying.
She was simply reflecting the truth I’d been avoiding:
I lost touch with the version of me I never should’ve left behind.
We don’t just lose ourselves in crisis.
We lose ourselves in expectations.
In performance.
In being what everyone else needed before we ever asked ourselves what we needed.
We disappear behind the “good girl.”
The reliable friend. The strong one. The healer. The doer. The one who doesn’t need anything.
Until one day, we stop asking what we want altogether.
We’re just… functioning.
Smiling on cue. Showing up out of habit.
But disconnected from our joy, our depth, our essence.
You don’t need to reinvent yourself. You need to return to yourself.
Because she’s still in there.
The girl who loved loudly.
Who didn’t apologize for her softness.
Who danced without needing a reason.
Who believed her voice mattered before the world tried to silence her.
You didn’t lose her.
You just stopped listening.
But the mirror? She remembers.
And she’s waiting for you to remember, too.
Here’s how I started returning to the version of me I forgot:
1. I made a “Remember Me” list.
I wrote down what I used to love, before I tried to make everyone else comfortable.
Books I devoured. Music I cried to. The way I dressed when I wasn’t dressing for approval.
It brought her back to me.
2. I stood in the mirror and said, “I miss you.”
I let the grief surface.
Because sometimes remembering who you were means mourning who you had to become just to survive.
3. I stopped waiting to feel ready to be her again.
You don’t have to “go back.”
You just have to say yes to who you’ve always been.
Even if it’s one gentle layer at a time.
The mirror isn’t here to expose you. It’s here to bring you home.
So let yourself come back.
To the softness.
To the laughter.
To the clarity.
To the girl who still lives under the ache.
She didn’t leave.
She’s just been waiting for you to stop performing and start remembering.
You are not lost. You are layered.
And every layer you peel back brings you closer to the girl who never stopped whispering:
“I’m still in here.”
The Soft Power Journal 