Simone in the mirror

 Simone adored the woman in the mirror. Each morning, she would stand before it, tracing the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes, whispering, "You are beautiful." And in those quiet moments, she believed it.


Yet, by afternoon, her reflection seemed to warp. Scrolling through her phone, she watched as friends celebrated promotions, engagements, faraway travels. Each post was a tiny dagger stabbing into her soul. A young, famous singer, radiant in a magazine spread, made her fingers tighten around the page. Why it’s not me? The question coiled around her ribs like a vine, squeezing until her own victories felt small, her beauty dull in comparison.


One evening, after another wave of bitterness left her restless, Simone caught her own gaze in the mirror. The woman staring back was not the confident soul from the morning, but someone hunched, hungry, as if her worth had been scattered into others’ lives and she was left clutching only fragments. A realization struck her like a breath of cold air: The mirror never lied. Only she did.


When she envied her friend’s new job, it wasn’t because she lacked talent rather it was because she’d stopped daring to apply for her own dream role. When she resented the singer’s glow, it wasn’t because she wasn’t beautiful, it was because she let magazines define what beauty was. Every pang of jealousy was a shadow cast by something she’d disowned in herself.


So Simone began a new ritual. Each time envy flared, she asked: What does this say about what I’ve buried within? Slowly, she reclaimed the pieces of her ambition, her joy, her sovereignty over her own happiness. The more she tended to this, the quieter the noise of jealousy and envy grew.


One day, scrolling past a friend’s triumph, she felt only warmth. The mirror that morning had shown her a woman whole, no longer peering over her own shoulder for validation. Her world had not changed. She had. And suddenly, there was nothing to envy, only reflections of the abundance she’d finally let herself see. She discovered within herself that the cure for jealousy was not possession, but a remembrance of who she was.


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