When Beauty Isn’t Enough ... Lessons from Cracked Mirrors

The mirror was cracked.

Not in some poetic, symbolic way. It was damaged. A sharp line ran through the glass, splitting my reflection just enough to distort it. I noticed it while standing there with eyeliner in one hand and coffee in the other, already late in my own head before the day had even started.

My schedule was full. My mind was fuller. Work demanded precision. Life demanded patience. Family needed attention. Friends needed space. Every role I play was asking for something at the same time, and I wasn’t fully present for any of them.

I wasn’t grounded.
I wasn’t focused.
And I could feel it.

There was a moment where I considered waiting. Waiting for a different mirror. Waiting for a calmer morning. Waiting until I felt more steady, more collected, more like the version of myself I needed to be that day.

But life doesn’t work like that.

Life doesn’t pause until you’re ready. It doesn’t smooth itself out because you’re overwhelmed. It doesn’t delay the meeting, the conversation, the responsibility, or the moment that requires you to show up.

So I drew the line anyway. Imperfect. Slightly crooked. Smudged at the edge. It wasn’t the look I wanted, but it was done.

That cracked mirror stayed with me.

Because most people are walking around with fractured reflections. We see ourselves through old criticism, missed opportunities, other people’s expectations, and narratives that were never ours to begin with. Over time, we stop questioning the distortion and start calling it truth.

Beauty has a way of becoming armor when life feels heavy.

I used it that way for years. At work, it helped me carry chaos without letting anyone see the weight of it. In relationships, it kept the smile in place even when the ground underneath me was shifting. In leadership roles, it allowed me to celebrate others while quietly struggling to find my own footing. In performance, it covered the moments when direction was missing but output was still required.

It was a masterful illusion.
But it wasn’t discipline.

Armor works until it becomes a substitute for grounding. And eventually, that trade catches up with you.

There was a moment ... not dramatic, not loud ... but defining. A room where pressure was high and expectations were higher. I wasn’t unprepared intellectually. I wasn’t unqualified. But I wasn’t anchored.

Emotion surfaced before structure. Reaction moved faster than restraint. And the shift in the room was immediate. Tone changed. Authority narrowed. Something unspoken settled in.

It wasn’t about being emotional.
It was about being uncontained.

That moment cost me more than credibility. It taught me the difference between polish and presence.

We’re taught early that being polished is safer than being honest. That composure equals control. That perfection is protection. Especially for women. Especially in professional spaces where authority is fragile and judgment is quick.

But polish doesn’t hold pressure.
Presence does.

Perfection doesn’t command respect.
Grounding does.

You can be beautiful and still be unsteady. You can be impressive and still be unclear. You can look powerful and still be negotiating with yourself internally.

That’s where cracks matter.

Cracked mirrors force you to see what you’ve been avoiding. They interrupt the illusion. They expose the difference between who you appear to be and who you actually are when conditions aren’t ideal.

I respect a different kind of beauty now. The kind that’s intentional, not performative. Clean, not curated. A woman who took the time to know herself before presenting herself. Someone disciplined enough to be imperfect without unraveling.

Here’s the truth that offends perfection:

Let it go.

Being flawless will never save you. Being grounded might.

There is humility in admitting you’re human. And when humility is paired with structure, it becomes authority. Not the kind that demands attention, but the kind that holds it.

When you look in the mirror ... really look ... the question isn’t whether you like what you see.

The question is whether you recognize yourself.

Avoidance is quiet. It hides behind productivity. Behind competence. Behind being “fine.” It convinces you that as long as things look good, they are good. That as long as you can perform, you don’t have to stabilize. That if you keep moving, you won’t have to stand still long enough to notice what’s missing.

But unaddressed instability always collects interest.

It shows up when pressure increases. When the room gets quieter. When the stakes rise. When your usual armor no longer holds and something inside you starts negotiating for safety instead of standing in truth.

That’s the moment most people retreat. They blame timing. They blame the room. They blame the mirror. They tell themselves they’ll deal with it later, once things calm down, once they’re more prepared, once life gives them better conditions.

It won’t.

The work you keep postponing doesn’t disappear. It waits. And it waits until the cost is higher.

Grounding is not glamorous. It doesn’t announce itself. It requires discipline when no one is watching. Honesty when no one is asking. Structure before confidence. Presence before performance.

If you haven’t done that work, you already know it. And if this piece unsettles you, that’s not coincidence. That’s recognition.

The mirror isn’t asking you to fix yourself.
It’s asking you to stop avoiding yourself.

And when you finally do, you’ll realize something uncomfortable and freeing at the same time ...

your grit is gorgeous.
— Maven