When I look in the mirror, I no longer recognize the reflection staring back at me. This woman is older than I am. The shape of her mouth does not show me joy but criticism. She has hard creases on her forehead and between her eyes. Her once enviable cheekbones have been buried beneath the weight of depression. This woman’s ocean-blue eyes have darkened with time. She traded her porcelain skin for broken blood vessels and dry spots. Her curly auburn hair has gone limp and wiry where the white came in.

The mirror’s reflection shows a body that is not my own. Her posture is burdened, shown in the slump of her shoulders. Her shape has transformed from hard hourglass to soft and pillowy. Her arms are freckled with age. Her hands are lined from use. This woman’s breasts sag as the stretch marks pucker around her nipples. Her previously round belly button has collapsed into itself. Her hip bones have long since been covered with layers of indulgence. Her thighs dimple and her knees fold.

She is unrecognizable from the outside, permanently altered. What caused the woman staring back at me to become a stranger? Was I too preoccupied with surviving to notice her change? I didn't see her shoulders begin to sag. I missed her body plumping. When did her hands become wrinkled with time? On what day did her face form its first permanent scar of emotion? The reflection in the mirror shows every laugh and furrowed brow. If I know how this woman came to be, is she a stranger?