Foggy Mirror: Meeting Myself Anew

We all have moments when we look in the mirror and feel a little lost, like the person we were has shifted, and we’re catching up to who we’ve become. Foggy Mirror explores that quiet, unsettling distance from ourselves.

Foggy Mirror 

I stand at the mirror,

But the face looking back 

is soft around the edges,

blurred by breath 

and the humid haze

before remembering. 

Steam rises from something still warm..

Me?

Or the memory of me

hovering just behind the glass.

I drag my hand across the surface, 

a temporary truth,

cleared for a moment 

before it fogs again.

I catch a glimpse - 

A jaw I recognize, 

tired eyes with questions 

they no longer voice.

This isn’t loss. 

It’s unfamiliarity.

Like waking up in someone else’s skin 

And finding your name stitched beneath the collar.

I used to know myself without thinking,

without effort. 

Now it takes a push,

a shove into reflection

just to meet my own gaze

against the pull of who I am was.

But I wait.

And when the mirror clears,

if only for a breath,

I nod to the version of me

still standing there.

No longer hidden, 

just slowly coming into view.

Some mornings I stood at the mirror and the face staring back didn’t quite feel like mine. I knew the jawline, the curve of the eyes, the details I’d memorized after years of living in this skin. And yet, something about it felt blurred, like fog creeping over glass, clinging to steam I couldn’t fully wipe away. There’s something unsettling about not fully recognizing yourself. It isn’t always dramatic, no sudden loss, no violent shift. Sometimes it’s subtle. One day you realize the edges have softened, and you can’t remember when it started.

That’s the strange thing about identity: it slips. It’s not that I disappeared, but that I changed, and catching up to those changes felt harder than I wanted to admit. The familiarity I once had with myself wasn’t always there anymore. At times I felt like I was living beside myself, not inside.

That’s what Foggy Mirror is about. It isn’t total loss. It's estrangement. The fog becomes a metaphor for the seasons when we feel out of sync: grief, burnout, transition. Those mornings when you wake up inside your body but not fully at home in it. Clarity doesn’t come easily. It takes effort to look closely. It’s easier to turn away than drag a hand across the glass and face what’s underneath. But that push (the shove into reflection) reminds me self-recognition is active, not passive. I used to recognize myself without effort. These days, it takes intention. Avoidance only thickens the fog. And while disconnection can feel permanent, it isn’t. We’re still here, just changed. Reshaped by what we’ve endured.

So I wipe the glass, even knowing the clarity won’t last. In that fleeting glimpse, I see eyes carrying both exhaustion and proof of survival. It isn’t loss I’m staring at, but unfamiliarity. A stranger who carries my name, my story, my resilience. When I end Foggy Mirror with a nod to the reflection, it’s more than a gesture. It’s acknowledgment. A quiet I see you. You’re still here. And sometimes, that’s enough. Many of us go through this, after heartbreak, grief, growth, or simply the quiet passage of time. But being unfamiliar with ourselves doesn’t mean we’re lost. It means we’re becoming. Maybe the gift of the fog is that it forces us to look closer, to reintroduce ourselves with patience instead of judgment.

So if you’ve ever looked into the mirror and felt that same distance, know you’re not alone. The fog clears, even briefly. And if all you can do is nod at the version of you standing there, let it be enough. It means you’re still showing up.