Love Is a Mirror. Are You Ready To Look?

I walked into a coffee shop bathroom mid-spiral and caught myself in the mirror wearing the most aggressively masculine outfit I own. Collared shirt, wide-leg jeans, the works.

I laughed out loud. Alone. In a public restroom.

Here's what happened before that.

…

Mr. International held up a mirror today. He encouraged me to lean more into my femininity, not as a criticism, but as a possibility. He's secure in his own masculinity, and he sees space for me to soften. To meet more of myself.

I heard it. I received it as well as I could.

And then something old stirred, that quiet, familiar voice that says you're doing it wrong, fix it, be better now. I know her. She's the perfectionist I've been slowly evicting for years. She still has a key, though.

The thing about this kind of feedback is you can't just adjust and move on. There's no checklist. You have to sit with it, which has never been my strong suit. I'm better at motion than stillness. Better at fixing than feeling.

So I went to get coffee. Walked into the bathroom. Saw myself. Saw my outfit. Saw his point.

And, I laughed because what else do you do when life catches you mid-defense?

Later, I walked into a dance meeting. Nobody there knew anything about that conversation. No context, no backstory. And without a word, the dancers started adjusting my outfit — pulling fabric in, emphasizing curves, leaning into softness.

I stood there and let them.

That's the thing I keep learning: once you're finally ready to see something, the whole world becomes the mirror. It was already there. You just weren't looking.

So, this got me thinking about what love is supposed to feel like. The greatest love songs make it sound like survival, like digging trenches together; vows written like warnings, endurance as the proof of devotion.

But with Mr. International, even the heavy conversations don't feel like battle. They feel like openings.

Maybe that's because I've stopped looking for someone to suffer alongside me and started looking for something stranger — someone willing to show me myself. Clearly. Kindly. Lovingly.

That's even rarer to find than a partner who'll weather a storm with you.

And it asks more of you, too. Because when someone loves you clearly enough to hold up the mirror, you have two choices: look away, or stay in the room.

I'm learning to stay.

Not because I've figured out what I'll find there. But because the woman in the mirror — the one I haven't fully met yet — she's been waiting a long time.

And I think she's worth the look.