The Mirror Turned Inward

He has always burned brighter than me.

From the moment we met, he moved through the world with the kind of self-assurance that made people follow him without question. He didn’t doubt, didn’t hesitate. He saw what he wanted and took it—jobs, admiration, attention, success. I watched him do it again and again. And I told myself I admired him.

But admiration, in my world, is never clean.

Because the truth is, I didn’t just admire him. I wanted to be him.

Every morning, I watched him wake up with purpose while I curled deeper into my own inertia. He’d sip his coffee and rattle off plans and goals while I sat there, nodding, smiling, proud. Proud and furious. Jealous. Sickened by my own passivity.

But I knew how to cope—I praised him. I lifted him, fed him compliments, encouragements, affirmations. I became his mirror, polished and obedient. I made sure he never saw the decay behind the smile. Because if he was admired, and I was close to him, then I mattered too. If he succeeded, I felt entitled to the reward—his money, his status, his security. His glow became my own, even if only in shadow.

That’s the game I played.

And I was good at it.

Until my therapist said something that split me open like a crack of light through a locked room.

“You know, it takes drive to do what you do. Motivation. Discipline. You’ve just been aiming it at him, not you.”

That sentence has haunted me ever since. Because for the first time, I couldn’t hide behind the lie that I was empty. That I lacked ambition. That I was helpless. No—I had been using my energy, just not for me.

So now, I’m trying something terrifying. I’m turning the mirror inward.

This morning, instead of watching him work, I opened my laptop and wrote. Just a little. But it was mine. My thoughts. My voice. It felt shaky, ugly, awkward. But I did it.

I caught myself praising him again today—something small, something automatic. But then I stopped, and I asked, “Would I say that to myself?” I didn’t know how to answer. So I wrote it down instead.

“Today, I’m proud of myself for showing up. For trying. For not disappearing.”

I know this isn’t going to be quick. I’ve been trained to measure my worth by proximity. Proximity to beauty. To confidence. To success. But I’m starting to believe that maybe I don’t have to orbit someone else to feel whole.

Maybe I can burn, even if it’s a smaller flame. Maybe I can feed myself.

And if envy creeps in—and it does—I use it. I ask, “What is this showing me that I want?” And I take a step. I act. I make it real. Not perfect. Not grand. Just real.

Each night, I leave a note for myself. A little praise, a reminder.

“You’re building. Quietly, slowly. But you’re building.”

And in those moments, I feel something unfamiliar.

Not pride exactly. But something close. Something that feels like standing in my own light for the very first time.