I’ve spent my whole life wandering through a fun house full of mirrors. And each mirror I encountered would tell me a different story of me, project back an image that was slightly or vastly different from the last one. I remembered taking the images as truth, and feeling so torn apart because there was rarely a connection to them all. The distorted reflections would shrink, expand and pull me apart, until I could not discern what was truth and what was distortion. At the time, I tried to make sense of it all, to no avail. Internalizing it all, I could feel myself sinking down.
Every day, every single one of us have to journey through this fun house. People telling who they think we are, what we should be, what dreams we must have… it is like them taking our image, funneling it through their own distortions and spitting back a chewed-up version of who they want you to be. No one is exempt. ‘Tis the folly and limitation of human thinking. But with each day I grow older, the more restless I become. I always thought I had to listen to them all, but their words grew more and more incongruent with what was true inside my heart. The image would never show the real me, and a tiny part inside sighed in desperation.
Until I realized that none of the mirrors are truth. They are subjective, opinions, not meant to show me the truth, but others’ view of the truth. I have always wanted to be me, but in reality, nothing was holding me back. Because the images do not have to mean anything… unless I want them to.