I used to see myself as a mirror—cracked long before it ever shattered. In my early 20s, I saw the fragments of who I was scattered across the floor—a broken reflection of what was and what could have been.
At 20 years old, I landed in a psych unit. That was the moment everything split. But truthfully, the glass had been slowly fracturing for years—every cruel joke, every comparison, every time I questioned if I was enough etched a crack.
How do you reassemble a mirror once it's shattered? Will the pieces ever fit perfectly again? Like an impossible puzzle, the pieces of me were waiting for someone to put me back together again.
The Weight of the Cracks
I locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the shower so no one would hear me as I cried on the floor. There were days when it felt like the universe was conspiring against me—and winning. I was constantly taking one step forward and two steps back.
I let the outside voices dictate my worth—the cruelest burden of being human. The worst part was, I echoed the voice within myself that told me I wasn’t good enough. In the midst of endless voices circling through my mind, I stopped trusting myself.
Validation, Vulnerability, and the Mask I Wore
Everything I did, I questioned. I looked to others to validate me, and too many times, they used it as an opportunity to exploit my weaknesses and use my fears against me.
“I thought you’d be more by now. You should be doing more, achieving more. What happened to all that potential?”
A scarred mirror with cuts no one could quite see yet—hidden beneath a reflection of strength—only it wasn’t strength, it was survival.
On the outside, I was the quintessential human, and, in many ways, the world still thinks I am. As a student, I earned a bachelor's degree in 2.5 years. As a family member, I flew cross-country every few days for a year, juggling student life and caring for my grandmother with Alzheimer’s. And from the outside, I made it all look effortless. Yet, on the inside, I took every criticism to heart and let it cut deep into my identity – something I am still working on.
As the world chipped away at my reflection and weakened the glass, I slowly lost all of myself but the façade that held me together.
Trying to Rebuild What Never Was
Suddenly, broken glass, scattered pieces, I thought there was nothing left. I scrambled to fit the pieces back together, trying to rebuild so no one would see the truth of the pain in my eyes.
I smiled through it all. People often described me as high energy or sunshine. All of that energy was a defense mechanism, protecting myself from being exposed as a human. I kept adding more to my plate until weekly breakdowns became a part of my routine. Breakdowns to anger to productivity – an endless cycle of pain disguised as purpose. I told myself, “I’m a masochist,” and decided that was how it had to be. I continued to put myself in the way of people who would love me when they needed me, enjoyed being around me when I was falling apart, and pushed me down whenever I started to rise. I was forcing myself into an image, into a life that was fractured from the start.
Over time, I realized the pieces never quite fit together, and even the ones that did were scarred.
It wasn’t until I stopped forcing something to rebuild into what never was that I noticed what each crack taught me. My edges were sharper now than ever before. My scars were the cracks that let light shine through me instead of just reflecting off me.
Becoming Unbreakable
I took those sharp edges and built a new version of me, an unbreakable me.
I took my pain and found beauty in all the scars. I took what I had left, sharpened the edges, and discovered that my pain could become my power.
There are shards of glass still wedged in my heart from each word that wounded me. It hurt me, it didn’t end me.
I took the pain of 5-year-old me who wanted to feel important, 12-year-old me who struggled to belong, 15-year-old me who felt like she was drowning, gasping for air, 18-year-old me who starved to love herself, and 20-year-old me who desperately wanted it all to stop, and I turned it into my superpower.
Sharpened edges did not mean I became cruel or callous, nor did it mean I set out with a vengeance. Sharpening the edges became a layer of protection – a strength in knowing each piece of me wasn’t meant to fit in; it was meant to stand out.
I built a nonprofit. I sparked over 200 conversations with people around the world. I sent more than 25,000 handmade cards to patients in psychiatric hospitals. I started traveling the continent to speak at events and share my journey from survivor to advocate. I started writing workbooks to develop a curriculum. I took the pieces that I once saw shattered, sharpened them, and turned them into something more. I created a version of me that no one could destroy.
The Truth Behind the Reflection
The mirror didn’t shatter to destroy me—it shattered to set me free.
I’m not a shattered reflection anymore. I’m a force.
All this time, I thought they broke me—turns out, it all built me.
