I woke up this morning with a poem in my head.

I wanted to share it hoping it would resonate with someone else.

The Woman in the Mirror

A poem about becoming

I look into the mirror and don't recognize

the woman staring back at me.

She is older now, stripped bare —

no hair, no brows, no shield to wear.

Rough edges where the soft once lived,

a hollow ache in all she gives.

Her eyes hold sorrow, deep and wide —

I see my grandmother inside.

I wake each morning, searching still

for the body bent to my own will.

The strength is gone. My movements slow,

like winter creeping through the bone.

Electric shocks in nameless places,

numb fingers groping, losing traces.

My bones — they carry twenty years

of weight that wasn't always theirs.

My thoughts drift like smoke on water,

scattered, thin, and growing shorter.

Words misplaced or missing whole,

a fog that settles on my soul.

And sleep — oh sleep — you cruel, distant thing,

you promise rest, then offer nothing.

I reach for you with hollow hands

and wake still lost in borrowed lands.

But then —

I turn toward the window glass

and something shifts I cannot grasp.

A bird releases one clear note

and joy rises in my throat.

Bees trace their ancient, golden path,

unhurried in their aftermath.

Flowers stand in shameless bloom,

triumphant, tall, perfuming the room.

A breeze moves through like something holy,

deliberate and soft and slowly

waking something new in me —

a hunger I had ceased to see.

The sunlight lands upon my skin

like hands that heal from deep within.

And from the kitchen, something warm

reminds me: I am being reborn.

I do not know the woman yet

who waits beyond this silhouette.

I cannot name her, place her face,

or map the edges of her grace.

But I will wait — with patience worn

and just enough of joy reborn —

while God reshapes what fire refined

and shows me what He had in mind.

She is coming.

I can feel her.

She is mine.

— Rachel Lei Baldwin 

@ copyright Rachel L Baldwin/rlbdesigns 5-24-26

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