Learning Self-Encouragement: Encouraging the Woman in the Mirror

I sat on the floor of my cruise cabin, legs stretched out in front of me, facing a full-length mirror. I wasn’t standing or passing by on my way to something else—I was still. On purpose. I didn’t realize it then, but I was learning a form of self-encouragement I had never been taught.

I looked myself directly in the eyes and started talking out loud; I was encouraging the woman in the mirror. This was the beginning of truly learning self-encouragement.

As I stared at my reflection, I told myself I was proud of me for surviving 100% of my bad days. I told myself I was beautiful. I reminded myself that I am enough and that I am chosen. In that moment I needed to remember the important truths I had to learn the hard way: that God will never leave me nor forsake me, that I am not abandoned, and that I still belong to Him.

I didn’t rush it, and I didn’t look away. I held eye contact with myself the way you do when you want someone to know you mean what you’re saying.

Because I was learning to mean it.

When the Mirror Was Not Kind

It wasn’t always like this.

For a long time, the mirror reflected everything that had chipped away at my confidence: weight gain, clothes that didn’t feel like me, hair that didn’t cooperate, posture that tried to make me smaller, and a version of myself that felt behind in ways I couldn’t fully explain.

I often think back to a dressing room in Burlington around 2015 or 2016. In the dressing room, I tried on clothes and realized I couldn’t fit my usual size. I had to go up several sizes, and the shock hit me immediately. But it didn’t stop there. It turned into something deeper, something heavier.

That was the first time I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw.

Not in a passing, nitpicking way.

In a way that made me feel disconnected from myself.

I felt unrecognizable.

I left the store without buying anything, but I carried that moment with me. It followed me into how I dressed, how I showed up, and how I tried to hide. That was the beginning of wanting to shrink—not just physically, but socially and emotionally. I wanted to shrink in my clothes, in rooms, and in my presence.

The mirror became a place where I rehearsed insecurity instead of truth.

Even before that, I had struggled with body dysmorphia. Even when I was athletic, I wanted to be smaller. I wanted to be someone else. The mirror was never neutral for me. It was a place where I measured myself, and most days, I didn’t measure up.

The Soundtrack to an Identity Crisis

I first heard Lalah Hathaway’s “Mirror” in 2019 during a season when I felt like I was floundering.

I remember journaling that day, asking questions I couldn’t quite answer: Who am I? How do I find my joy within? I kept cycling through unhappiness without understanding why, and I felt disconnected from any clear sense of direction.

There was a line in that song that stayed with me:

“Sometimes you gotta make the mirror your best friend.”

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but something in me held onto it anyway.

Looking back now, I can see that I had been in an identity crisis for a long time. I didn’t lack confidence, I lacked clarity about who I was allowed to be. At times the reflection staring back at me was unrecognizable. I had hidden myself for so long—for so many reasons—that I didn’t know how to return.

That lyric became less of a suggestion and more of an invitation.

And eventually, it became a practice.

That inner shift eventually moved outward—into my routines, my rituals, and the way I began living again. I write more about that turning point in Reclaiming My Joy, where self‑encouragement left the mirror and found its way into my kitchen, my Sundays, and my sense of home.

Nairobi: When Insecurity Got Loud

By the time I got to Nairobi in October 2025, that insecurity was still very present.

I remember sitting in my hotel room after my first dinner, replaying the evening in my mind. The women around me looked polished, effortless, and confident, and I felt out of place—like I should have tried harder, like I didn’t quite belong.

I tried to treat myself with grace, reminding myself that I had just flown in from Uganda and there was nothing wrong with how I presented myself. But as I stood in front of the mirror the next evening before dinner I noticed everything I didn’t like: my bloated stomach, shoes that didn’t quite match my dresses, the small details that somehow felt like big failures.

Those thoughts followed me into the evening and shaped how I experienced it.

So instead of going back out, I ordered room service and stayed in. Not because I needed rest, but because insecurity got loud.

Because the mirror had already told me a story about myself, and I believed it.

And that’s the thing about those moments—they rarely stay contained. They start in the mirror, but they show up in your decisions, your posture, your presence, and your willingness to be seen.

Looking back, I can see how much of this battle happened during what I now recognize as a wilderness season—a place I write about more fully in Living in the Wilderness Season, where God met me in the quiet, uncomfortable spaces I wanted to avoid.

Zanzibar: The Mirror as Both Wound and Rescue

A week later, in Zanzibar, I had a moment that could have undone me, but it didn’t.

I had planned to go horseback riding along the beach. After having a very awkward and embarrassing conversation with the manager of the hotel where I was staying, I had even asked ahead of time to make sure my weight wouldn’t be an issue.

It was.

I was told I was too heavy to participate.

I held it together in public, but when we stopped for lunch, I went straight to the restroom and stood in front of the mirror.

For a moment, I felt that familiar pull—to tear myself apart, to let that moment confirm every insecurity I had been carrying. But instead, I paused.

I looked myself in the eyes and said, “I’m beautiful. I’m making progress. I’m not too heavy for God.”

It wasn’t long or poetic. But it was enough. Enough to keep me from breaking. Enough to steady me.

In that moment, I chose not to hide from myself. I chose to love myself when it would have been easier not to. And that changed something. The mirror didn’t deepen the wound, it helped contain it. The mirror didn’t have to be where I abandoned myself. It could be where I held myself together.

Later, as I processed everything, I wrote something that anchored me even deeper—my body, my emotions, my circumstances, my heart surgery, my childhood wounds, my brokenness… none of it is too heavy for God.

That wasn’t just affirmation. That was truth.

Somewhere else in Zanzibar, something shifted even further.

I looked at myself again—this time without an immediate wound attached to the moment—and I recognized her.

Not just physically, but internally.

Joy.

Peace.

Softness.

It felt familiar in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

It reminded me of something I wrote in The Version of Me I Rediscovered When I Travel—that there is a version of me that reemerges when I’m not weighed down by pressure, expectation, or survival mode.

Zanzibar didn’t create her.

But it gave me the space to see her again.

And this time, when I saw her in the mirror, I didn’t question her.

I received her.

Practicing Self-Encouragement Became Discipline

By December, something had shifted in a noticeable way.

Encouraging myself in the mirror was no longer something I did only in hard moments—it had become a consistent practice.

On Christmas Day, a woman stopped me on the cruise ship and told me I looked like a goddess. I smiled, but later, I took that moment to the mirror and repeated it—not to inflate myself, but to receive it.

That week, I spent a lot of time giving myself real eye contact. I talked through my emotions, acknowledged my pain, and affirmed myself intentionally. I also noticed a shift in how I showed up. Most importantly, I stopped worrying so much about fitting in and started allowing myself to simply exist as I am.

Self-encouragement became less about fixing myself and more about caring for myself consistently.

Making the Mirror My Best Friend

I finally understand what it means to make the mirror your best friend.

It’s not about vanity. It’s about refusing to abandon yourself. To tell the truth when your mind wants to lie.

It’s about choosing gentleness when you’ve been conditioned to choose criticism.

It’s about learning to agree with God about what you see.

Over time, the mirror stopped being a place of measurement and became a place of care.

The Woman in the Mirror

These days, when I stand in front of the mirror, I’m not there to pick myself apart.

I’m there to tell the truth. To remind and encourage myself. To love.

Because life has tried hard enough to discourage her already. And she doesn’t need another critic.

She needs someone who will look her in the eyes, stay present, and say,

“I’m proud of you.”

And mean it.

Because I spent too many years hiding from her, waiting for someone else to affirm what I refused to say to myself first.

Your Self-Encouragement

If you’ve spent years avoiding your own reflection, or letting it speak louder than truth, I want to gently invite you to try something different.

Stand still. Look yourself in the eyes. Say one true thing. One kind thing. One grounding reminder of who you are and who God says you are.

You don’t have to believe it perfectly yet. Practice counts.

Encouragement doesn’t always come from others. Sometimes it begins when you decide not to abandon yourself anymore.

If this resonated, you’re not alone. And you don’t have to rush the process. Healing often starts with a quiet “stay” instead of another escape.

If this reflection resonates with you, I’d love for you to stay connected. You can subscribe to Grace Notes, my newsletter, where I share quiet reflections on faith, healing, and becoming.