She used to look in the mirror and recognize her reflection. She saw her hair and her eyes and knew who she was.

But now she looks in the mirror and wonders what happened to the woman she knew. Still the same hair, still the same eyes—and yet she can’t seem to recognize herself when she passes by a mirror.

Perhaps it’s the lines on her forehead that make her look different. That remind her of past worry.

Or maybe it’s the slouch of her shoulders as they try to hold up too many burdens.

She supposes it could be the circles that underline her eyes, as well. The circles that tell stories of late nights and too much to do.

But anyone else that could see her, would know that the answer is all of that and more.

Because it’s also the lines decorating the corners of her eyes—lines of laughter and stories told.

It’s also the compassion in her eyes when she says she understands—because she does understand. More than anyone else, she understands.

And as her fingers, nimble with experience, reach up to touch her own cheek, she looks in the mirror for the last time and she finally—

—finally—

—recognizes who she is.