It's absurd.
Almost impossible not to laugh at it.

Better to laugh,
to savor the madness.

How could I have believed
I had grown wise
after so many shipwrecks?

How could I have thought
I had bent beneath my law
that untamed force
that has brought down kings?

What arrogance!

I paid the price
of my ignorance.

Perhaps another low blow
from Providence,
a reminder
to return to humility.

Yes, I thought I had found love,
when all along I had been thrown
to the vultures.

J'avais cru trouver l'amour

J'avais cru trouver l'amour,
alors que je n'étais que l'élu des vautours.

C'est insensé.
Presque impossible de ne pas s'en moquer.

Mieux vaut en rire,
savourer ce délire.

Comment ai-je pu croire
être devenu sage
après de nombreux naufrages ?

Comment ai-je pu penser
avoir courbé sous ma loi
cette force farouche
qui a fait tomber des rois ?

Quelle arrogance !
J'ai payé le prix de mon ignorance !
Peut-être un autre coup bas de la providence,
fallait qu'on me rappelle à la décence !

Oui, j'avais cru trouver l'amour,
alors qu'on m'avait jeté en pâture aux vautours.

Just something that I wrote this week. The mirror question is: can we really understand love even after many experiences? Can we truly understand the human’s heart ?

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“Ou gen 3 mal sou tèt: ou sot, ou nwè epi w ayisyen.”

(You’ve got three strikes against you: you’re an idiot, you’re Black, and you’re Haitian.)

Those words made us laugh back then, and I can’t even remember how many times we repeated them to tease one another.

Later, after I left Haiti, I began to realize that what had been nothing more than a joke to us as teenagers carried a much deeper and more tragic meaning for the man who had said it. He had lived in the United States and had eventually been deported.

It was during my years abroad that his words stopped being a joke to me and became something far more unsettling.

In a world where we are constantly competing and surrounded by scammers, being naïve can indeed be a burden. In a world shaped by bias and prejudice, being Black can also be a disadvantage in certain places and under certain circumstances. And beyond being Black, being Haitian can sometimes be seen as a burden—or even as a flaw in itself.

This article, however, is not about racism. It is not a complaint about Haitians. It is about something that goes beyond racism, bias, and prejudice. I would argue that these behaviors we often describe as unjust are, in many ways, the consequences of a deeper concept: stereotypes.

At first, I had no intention of writing this bonus article. It wasn’t part of my plan. But I recently began studying psychology, and during my first course on identity, diversity, and related topics, this word simply stayed in my mind. Around the same time, I was deeply moved by an article published on Substack last month, I Hope You Teach Your Child About Mine, in which she writes about her son. She reveals the remarkable child hidden behind the disability that most people notice first.

That article made me think. And during those moments of reflection, I came to believe that beyond our appearance and our behavior lie the stories we inherit—and the stories that continue to spread around us.

In my opinion, stereotypes do not appear out of nowhere. They are formed from the stories that raised us and from the ones that continue to shape the world around us.

From the moment we are born, we all receive certain characteristics: the color of our skin, our culture, our country, our family, our community, our appearance... Each of those characteristics carries its own stories.

These stories are like an identity compass—or simply a profile card. They are simplified mental images that help us categorize ourselves in a world that is far too complex. They also help us find our place within a community, creating a sense of belonging and similarity.

These stories are not only about ourselves. They are also about other people. We live in a world where comparison is often used to identify, classify, and reassure the group. In that sense, a story is not only a map of who I am. It is also a map of the world. And it is this second function that gives birth to stereotypes.

From this perspective, stereotypes are the beliefs we have developed from these stories. They also become the profile cards we create in our minds about other people. When we meet someone, we often see the stories we have already learned about them before we see the person.

A Black man inherits a general description of White or Asian people from his community, and vice versa. Regardless of our culture or where we come from, we all inherit stories about other groups.

Our behavior—toward ourselves and toward others—is deeply influenced by those stereotypes.

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How Stories Become Stereotypes

I worked for ten months in a Chinese restaurant at Disney World. I was part of the dishwashing team. Every dishwasher there was Haitian. That surprised me at first, and some of my coworkers believed it was because of racism. I thought so too, at least in the beginning.

Later, I left Disney and started working at Amazon. There, my fellow Haitians were among the top performers in the warehouse. Our numbers were well above average. Some even reached three times the expected rate.

Little by little, I started thinking about it. I worked extremely hard, yet my paycheck never changed. So I began to slow down and ask myself a simple question: Why should I push myself this hard? I could perform at an average level and the company would have no issue with my performance. So why did I feel the need to do more?

While talking with my uncle, he told me that when he worked as a dishwasher at Disney years earlier, the team wasn’t made up exclusively of Haitians. But over time, Haitians had become known for working so fast and so hard that employees from other nationalities gradually disappeared from the dishwashing team. A task that normally would have taken two hours could be finished in less than one by the Haitian crew.

Looking back, I remember the pressure and the intensity we lived with every day, always trying to finish the work as quickly as possible.

For a while, I criticized that behavior among my fellow Haitians.

Then I realized I was doing exactly the same thing.

This is not something unique to Haitians. When you grow up as part of a minority community, you are often taught that you must work harder than everyone else just to receive the same opportunity.

As the rapper Youssoupha says in one of his songs:

“I had to give everything just to be given half.”

Even in a fair environment, we still put pressure on ourselves to be the best and to give more, unconsciously influenced by the stories we inherited while growing up.

Those behaviors eventually give birth to new stereotypes. In the example of Haitians, employers notice how hard Haitians work and begin repeating that observation. Haitians hear those words, and over time they unconsciously create a sense of expectation within the group itself. The cycle continues.

In a way, we create our own pressure by establishing standards that are shaped by our own beliefs.

Stereotypes also influence the way we treat other people. In many ways, they are the roots of prejudice. Stories provide us with profile cards about others, and from those profile cards emerges an emotional filter—what we feel when we encounter that image: fear, rejection, sympathy, or something else.

From those prejudices come discriminatory actions.

It is important to recognize that discrimination is not always something inherently evil. Discrimination begins the moment our stories stop influencing only the way we see the world and start influencing the decisions we make. We become more likely to give our trust, our opportunities, or our privileges to certain people while denying them to others. Even what is commonly called positive discrimination, despite its intention to correct past injustices, still operates on this same principle of treating people differently based on their membership in a particular group.

Those prejudices can eventually lead to violent reactions such as racism and many other forms of discrimination.

If we look more closely, we can see that these mechanisms follow a clear pattern. Everything begins with an observed reality. Then comes the interpretation we make of it. That interpretation becomes a story. And stories are almost never entirely true, nor entirely false.

In his song “Trinity,” Lucky Dube describes the tension that exists between two groups of people who hold different views of one another. He summarizes that tension in one simple line:

“When you see a black man, you see an aggressor. And when I see a white man, I see an oppressor.”

The question is: why? Why does each group expect something negative from the other?

Employers who have repeatedly seen Haitians work extremely hard may eventually come to expect every Haitian employee to behave the same way. If one day they meet someone who doesn’t, it may create a sense of disappointment, which in turn can create tension between employers and employees.

All of this simply shows that every story has an origin. More often than not, however, we classify an entire group based on the actions of a single individual. Someone who has had one bad experience with a Black man may quickly assume that all Black men are the same. They tell that story to those around them, who then repeat it to others, and the cycle continues. Each time the story is retold, it changes a little. It becomes more dramatic. Eventually, the original event may be forgotten altogether, while the message itself continues to spread.

The original story was not false. That person really did have a negative experience with a Black man. But neither was the story completely true, because not every Black man is the same. The same can be said about the story of White people being oppressors.

Over time, we become trapped in this cycle. We keep repeating the stories we inherited while creating new ones that reinforce what we already believe. Our minds, often without us realizing it, are constantly searching for evidence that confirms our existing beliefs.

In Haiti, we often grow up hearing that other nations are against us. When we meet someone from another country, influenced by those stereotypes, we instinctively become defensive. We begin to see provocation everywhere, racism in every small gesture. We become more attentive to anything that confirms the story we already carry within us. Then we react to an injustice that, at times, exists only in our own interpretation. The other person may sense that defensiveness and respond with a defensive wall of their own.

Stereotypes do more than block communication. They prevent genuine encounters. As long as we see people through the stories we inherited about them, we rarely give them the opportunity to tell us their own.

In that sense, the system of stereotypes, while both universal and comforting, traps us within an incomplete view of reality.

To be continued…

We often question our parents—the people who watched us grow up and deeply shaped our identity. Yet we rarely question another parent that raises us as well: our country.

The stories and beliefs it passes on to us often become the way we see the world, long before we ever have the chance to choose for ourselves.

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Motherland,

you, once called the Pearl of the Antilles,
for your beauty, your wealth,
for what you represented.

Your history stood as an example,
like a thread of light
in the heart of the darkness
of a world still far too divided.

You knew the chains,
you knew suffering,
and so you fought.

So many are those for whom you fought.
So many are the wars that were never yours.
So many are the homelands whose foundations you helped lay.
homelands that now look down on you,
homelands that still humiliate your children.

Haiti,
once a symbol of freedom,
resilience, and courage,
now
a land in agony,
a wounded people,
cast aside
like an object that is no longer useful,
like a spring with nothing left to give.

Today, I write.
Not to recall your former glory.

No.

I write to settle accounts.

Not with those you helped,
Not with those who erased you from their stories.
Not with the others.

I write to settle my accounts
with you,
Motherland.

I did not choose you as a mother.
Perhaps you did not choose
for me to be your child either.

It was the work of providence.

You took me into your arms,
perhaps with frustration,
with a little sadness hidden behind your joy.

Perhaps, deep within your heart,
there were lamentations,
because you were already carrying a burden,
costumes that held you captive.

You gave me a foundation,
like a loving mother who,
for her children, becomes a home.

You protected me from the noise outside.
You gave me plains on which to learn to run,
rivers in which to wash,
springs from which to cool myself,
fresh food to strengthen me.

And above all,
you forged me,
gave me a mind of steel..

You demanded more from me than others did.
Your way of teaching was harsher,
the conditions more primitive.

Some of my brothers and sisters
criticize the way you raised us.

They praise the quality of others,
how much easier it is to learn from them.

Few take the time to consider
that when one is accustomed to extremes,
what is normal can begin to feel easy.

I still carry the marks
of your educational,
financial,
and social severity.

You told me again and again
that I was better than the others,
that I had to be.

You told me I was strong,
that I had to become stronger,
to fight,
to survive,
to find my way out.

You forced your intelligence into me,
with the rod,
if necessary.

You wanted me to be more intelligent
than the others,
or at least more than ordinary.

I know that, presented this way,
one might say I am accusing you of arrogance.

But you know, I understand you, Motherland.

I had to leave you
to understand the weight of your lessons.

I had to live among others
to understand the meaning
behind your proud teachings.

Because you knew,
long before I ever realized,
that being your son was not a gift,
that carrying your name was also a burden.

Yes, I understand.

You were trying to make up for that weakness.

You were trying to fill me with value
when your image threatened to close doors in my face.

Your teachings helped me enter.

I had to leave
to understand what it means
to be your son.

As Youssoupha said:

“I had to give everything
just to be given half.”

I understand this necessary arrogance.

Like a child,
I believed every story you told me.

I carried them proudly,
like guides,
like absolute truths.

They were useful to me,
certainly,
but they also confined me.

You taught me
a world in black and white,
them against me,
and me against them.

Lucky Dube expresses this tension better.

In Trinity, he says:

“When I see a white man,
I see an oppressor.”

Just as you told me:

“When they see a Black man,
they see a criminal.”

It is not entirely false,
but I must admit that you were wrong,
Motherland.

Because of your teachings,
I lived among them
without ever truly living with them.

Do you know the loneliness that brought me?

In preparing me,
you also programmed me
to see enemies and adversaries everywhere.

A way of seeing
that brought me more suffering
than peace.

And your image never stopped haunting me,
as though every one of my actions
had to serve to restore your honor,
as though being myself
could never meet your standards.

But did you choose those standards?

That does not erase the suffering
your name has caused me,
or the shame I have felt.

Yes, Motherland,
there was a time
when I was ashamed to be your child.

But I never denied you.

I watched my brothers and sisters reject you
out of fear of being rejected.

But I never denied you,
even when it meant being rejected myself.

Some often think
that I betray your memory.

Tell me, Motherland,
should I support my brothers and sisters
simply because they come from you,
even when I believe they are wrong?

Should I set reason aside
to support and defend
the reckless actions
of my own people?

Would it be a betrayal of you
if I became friends with others?

I learned your principles.
I carried them for a long time.

And I also came to see their limits.

The world is not only black and white.

Yes, many have rejected me because of you.
Yes, may doors have been shut in my face because of you.
Yes, many are times I have had to do more
just to receive half of what others receive.

Yes, many have judged and condemned me
before ever knowing me,
simply because I am your child.

And yet, many more have accepted me.

Some walked beside me.
Others helped me.
They supported me.

Many see me beyond your image.

And perhaps, through me,
they have come to see you differently.

Know this well, Motherland:

I do not deny your teachings.
I will never throw away your stories.
I will keep your anger and your hatred near me.

But from now on,
they are no longer absolute truths,
nor standards by which I judge.

They remain as warnings.

We live in a biased world,
and even your darkest teachings
carry their share of truth.

There will probably always be
people who despise you,
others who persecute and condemn me
Because of your name.

Your teachings prepare me to face them.

For that,
I will always be grateful.

But I choose understanding.

I no longer condemn others
simply because they come from somewhere else.

I no longer judge people
the way you taught me to.

I judge them by their actions.

I will no longer condemn anyone automatically
because they are different from us.

I want to replace that hatred
with understanding,
integration,
connection.

Be assured, Motherland,
I will remain cautious.

Because I am your child,
as fierce and resilient as you,
generous yet untamed like you,
gentle and also as destructive as you.

Haiti,
Motherland,
you, once called the Pearl of the Antilles,

now in agony,

like all your children,
I carry your scars,
I inherit your labels.

You rocked me,
you taught me,
you shaped me,
you equipped me to face the world.

Yes, I come from you.

A little different, perhaps.

I am my own voice,
searching for a better version of you.

You remain my home,
my foundation.

I do not know whether I can say
that I am proud to be your child.
But I can proudly say
that I am your child.

You are not simply part of my story.

You are its first author,
its first light.

Mirror Question:

What is one belief you inherited from where you come from that you have never stopped to question?

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With Clarity,
Odel A.
The Mirror Room

Those constant comparisons frustrated me more than anything, and in a way, they also made me sad. At the time, I didn’t really understand where that tension came from, so I let anger take over. It was simply the easiest emotion to recognize and express.

Deep down, I wanted to be like my parents. They were respected, strong people. It’s natural for a child to want to follow in the footsteps of one or both parents. At the same time, though, I also wanted to be seen as myself.

And every time someone compared me to my brother (since we were almost always together), it created distance between that person and me. A little between my brother and me as well, but mostly between me and everyone else. I remember one of my brother’s girlfriends who got into the habit of calling me whenever she couldn’t reach him or whenever they were having a problem. One day, I asked her why she only called me to get to my brother. She told me that talking to my brother was basically the same as talking to me.

The anger I felt after hearing that turned into resentment, and I stopped trying to talk to her or build any kind of relationship with her.

She had treated me like an extension of my brother, and I have to admit, I truly hated that.

There have always been many comparisons between the way I am and the rest of my family. There are plenty of differences and plenty of similarities, yet people always seem to point out the differences.

Today, however, those comments no longer bother me. The tension that the child and the teenager within me carried has faded away.

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At some point, it becomes important to become yourself. It’s true that we first learn who we are by comparing ourselves to others. We develop parts of our character by observing the people around us. We shape our attitudes in relation to them—sometimes to become more like them, sometimes to become different from them.

A child defines themselves through the people around them. That is what sometimes creates a tension we continue to carry even after becoming adults. We struggle between the desire to be like our parents and the desire to be a little different from them. That longing to become ourselves can become a source of shame and intimidation because people never stop reminding us where we come from, sometimes with the intention of making us feel guilty or keeping us inside a box.

It is in our nature to want to honor those who came before us, to make our parents proud. We try to carry the weight of their expectations and avoid disappointing them. Sometimes, that leads us to hide who we are and sacrifice our dreams. Some of the paths that open before us can feel like a betrayal of where we come from. Very often, even when we truly want to follow those paths, the thought of betraying our heritage holds us back.

Following your own path, becoming yourself, is not always a betrayal of your roots.

When a child learns to walk, they first move in a straight line. They hold onto a wall, for example, and follow wherever that wall leads. Although the wall helps them keep their balance and move forward with confidence at first, they cannot follow that straight path forever. Eventually, they become strong and balanced enough to choose their own direction. And even if they walk the opposite way, the wall remains the point of reference that first gave them stability.

We see traces of this same mechanism in adulthood. When we are weak—for example, when someone is too drunk to walk straight—they often lean against a wall just to keep moving.

The child is not the wall, but the wall is an important part of helping the child learn to walk.

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The same is true of identity. At first, we define ourselves by following the path laid out by others. But eventually, we should follow our own path, even if it sometimes feels like we are walking in the opposite direction from those who raised us.

Today, when someone tells me I’m not like a member of my family, I simply answer, “I’m me.” And if they tell me I am like them, I accept that I learned from them.

There is no longer any tension. I want to be like them in certain ways while still becoming myself.

Which brings us back to the idea we’ve been developing throughout this series: perhaps identity is not about rejecting what we’ve inherited or becoming someone else. Perhaps it is about recognizing what has been passed down to us, choosing what we want to carry forward and what we want to leave behind, while continuing to follow our own path.

What matters is being yourself.

Mirror Question:

What part of yourself have you been afraid to embrace because it felt like a betrayal of where you came from?

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This week’s poem

If this text brings you clarity, understanding and self-awareness, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to support this place.

With clarity,

Odel A
The Mirror Room

To mark this moment, I’m sharing it in its original French version, as well as in English and Spanish.

I believe that, at some point in our lives, we all need to say these words to ourselves:

I am not you.

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Je ne suis pas vous.
Non, je ne veux pas être comme vous.
Mais un prolongement de vous,
Je poursuis une meilleure version de vous.

Père, mère, grand frère,
vous m’avez transmis beaucoup,
La valeur de la vie, le respect pour tous.
La bonté, la foi, la résilience,
La patience, l’indépendance, la persévérance.

J’ai vu vos sacrifices,
Votre dévotion sans malice,
Vous ne tolérez pas les vices,
Vous m’avez appris à vivre sans trop de caprices.

J’ai aussi vu vos limitations,
Ceux que vous laissez profiter de votre compassion.
Vous donnez souvent sans réfléchir, sans mesurer,
Pour vous retrouver seuls quand vous tombez.

Je veux bien de votre générosité,
Je porte en moi votre sensibilité,
Mon cœur honore votre bonté,
Mais j’avance avec mon armure d’insensibilité.

Je veux donner sans me vider,
Aider sans me sacrifier,
Supporter sans me blesser,
Me sauver avant de les sauver.

Je ne suis pas comme vous,
Mais une amélioration de vous.
Vous êtes ma fondation,
Mon origine, mon échantillon.

Non, frangin, mère, père,
Je ne serai jamais vous,
Malgré toute mon admiration pour vous.
Avec vous en moi, je suis ma propre lumière.

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I am not you.
No, I do not want to be like you.
But an extension of you,
I pursue a better version of you.

Father, mother, big brother,
You have given me so much:
The value of life, respect for everyone,
Kindness, faith, resilience,
Patience, independence, perseverance…

I have seen your sacrifices,
Your selfless devotion.
You do not tolerate vice.
You taught me to live without endless wants.

I have also seen your limitations,
Those who take advantage of your compassion.
You often give without thinking, without measuring,
Only to find yourselves alone when you fall.

I gladly inherit your generosity.
I carry your sensitivity within me.
My heart honors your kindness.
But I move forward wearing my armor of detachment.

I want to give without emptying myself,
To help without sacrificing myself,
To support without hurting myself,
To save myself before trying to save others.

I am not like you,
But an improvement of you.
You are my foundation,
My origin, my first model.

No, brother, mother, father,
I will never be you,
Despite all the admiration I have for you.
With you within me, I become my own light.

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No soy ustedes.
No quiero ser como ustedes.
Sino una prolongación de ustedes,
Persigo una mejor versión de ustedes.

Padre, madre, hermano,
Me han transmitido tanto:
El valor de la vida, el respeto por todos,
La bondad, la fe, la resiliencia,
La paciencia, la independencia, la perseverancia...

He visto sus sacrificios,
Su entrega desinteresada.
No toleran los vicios.
Me enseñaron a vivir sin demasiados caprichos.

También he visto sus límites,
A quienes se aprovechan de su compasión.
Con frecuencia dan sin pensar, sin medir,
Para terminar solos cuando ustedes caen.

Quiero conservar su generosidad.
Llevo dentro de mí su sensibilidad.
Mi corazón honra su bondad.
Pero avanzo con mi armadura de insensibilidad.

Quiero dar sin vaciarme,
Ayudar sin sacrificarme,
Apoyar sin herirme,
Salvarme antes de intentar salvar a los demás.

No soy como ustedes,
Sino una mejora de ustedes.
Ustedes son mi cimiento,
Mi origen, mi primer modelo.

No, hermano, madre, padre,
Nunca seré ustedes,
A pesar de toda la admiración que les tengo.
Con ustedes dentro de mí, soy mi propia luz.

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Mirror Question:

Imagine someone reading your life the way you read your parents’. What would you hope they inherit from you—and what would you hope ends with you?

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If you enjoyed reading it, consider supporting my work.

A COFFEE ?

With Clarity,
Odel A.
The Mirror Room

Disclaimer

These reflections are intended for self-observation and personal exploration. They are not a substitute for professional mental health support. If a reflection brings up overwhelming emotions, consider pausing and seeking support from a qualified professional.

The Mirror

As children, we naturally depend on others. They choose where we live, what we learn, and many of the opportunities we receive. Little by little, however, something is meant to change. We begin making small decisions for ourselves. We discover what we enjoy, what we dislike, what feels right to us. Choosing gradually becomes part of how we discover who we are.

Looking back, I realized that this process quietly stopped for me.

Many of my activities had already been decided. My classes, my hobbies, and often the direction I was expected to follow. At the time, I did not see it as a problem. In many ways, it made life easier. I did not have to worry about making decisions because someone else had already made them for me.

Years later, adulthood expected me to know what I wanted.

Instead, I often found myself unable to answer a simple question.

“What do you want?”

Not because I lacked ambition or intelligence, but because I had spent so many years following that I had stopped practicing one of the most important skills of adulthood: choosing.

This week’s practice is an invitation to explore a simple possibility.

What if the difficulty is not that you don’t know yourself?

What if you simply haven’t had enough opportunities to practice choosing for yourself?

This Week’s Clarity

This practice will help you:

• recognize where your ability to choose may have been shaped by your environment;

• distinguish between following others and discovering your own preferences;

• begin rebuilding confidence through small, intentional choices.

More importantly, it will help you begin relearning that ability through small choices instead of waiting for certainty.

You do not need to decide the rest of your life this week. You only need to begin exercising a skill that may have been left behind.

The Structural Lens

Others Chose → I Followed → My Preferences Became Quiet → I Practice Choosing → I Build My Own Direction

We often think clarity comes first and choices come second.

Sometimes the opposite is true.

Sometimes we only discover what we want because we were willing to choose, reflect, adjust, and choose again.

Like any other skill, the ability to choose develops through practice.

Before You Look

This practice is not about blaming the people who made decisions for you.

Parents, siblings, teachers, and communities often choose with good intentions and very often, out of love. They want to protect us, prepare us, or give us opportunities they never had themselves.

The purpose of this practice is different.

It is simply to notice whether, somewhere along the way, your opportunities to choose became smaller than your opportunities to follow.

If they did, perhaps the answer is not to judge yourself for feeling uncertain.

The answer is to begin practicing again.

🪞 Mirror One — Following or Choosing?

Think about your childhood and adolescence.

Who usually made the important decisions?

More importantly, how often were you invited to make your own?

Do not focus on whether those decisions were good or bad. Instead, notice whether you had enough opportunities to develop your own judgment.

Sometimes the habit of following becomes so familiar that we mistake it for our personality.

🪞 Mirror Two — Listening for Your Own Voice

Think of one decision you have been avoiding or postponing.

Before you ask what other people think, pause for a moment and ask yourself:

What is my first honest answer?

It may feel uncertain.

It may even feel incomplete.

That is not necessarily a sign that your answer is wrong. It may simply be the sound of a voice you have not listened to very often.

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It wasn’t something I chose voluntarily, and I have to admit that, at the time, I actually enjoyed not having to worry about what I should do or study. Nevertheless, I didn’t yet understand the impact this would have on my adult life. The first time I found myself having to choose something for myself, it was as though I had run straight into a wall. I simply couldn’t clearly decide what I wanted.

My father, having grown up in a family that believed there was only one path in life, wanted to give his children the opportunities he himself had never had. He dreamed of studying, of becoming a philosopher, of building a life beyond his family’s ancestral legacy. Since he had been unable to fulfill those dreams, he did everything he could to make sure that we could.

Yet, despite his sincere desire to equip us with different skills and abilities, he unintentionally took away one fundamental right: the right to choose.

I had become like my older brother’s shadow. I imagine that wasn’t something he had chosen either. People already mistook us for twins because we were always together, but every time he decided to enroll in a new course, my father automatically enrolled me as well. Refusing was never an option.

He said he wanted to give both my brother and me the same tools to succeed in life. It was a noble intention, filled with love, of course. Yet he never took our different personalities and desires into account. Before we even realized it, my brother’s desires had become mine as well.

When my brother decided to learn English, I was forced to learn it too, even though I would have preferred to study Spanish. English has been incredibly useful to me today, and I am grateful to my father for that. But back then, I never invested myself as I should have, and my foundation in English was never as solid as my brother’s.

Then my brother decided to learn the piano. I loved the piano too, but I was required to choose a different instrument so I could accompany him and our friends. That decision did not come from my father, but from the Christian community in which I grew up. The church wanted to train musicians, and morality became the means used to persuade me.

At one point, everything was decided by my brother. He looked after me like a parent looks after a child. He bought my clothes. His decisions were law. Before I realized it, I had become completely dependent on him, and I stopped thinking about what I truly wanted.

That being said, I became a very flexible person. It is a quality I genuinely appreciate because it allows me to live without rigidity and to adapt easily to different situations.

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Then, when I was about sixteen, I think something changed.

Perhaps my brother had grown tired of having to take care of me all the time and began forcing me to become more independent from him.

I still remember that moment as if it had happened yesterday because I deeply resented him for what happened, even though he was trying to help me spread my wings—something perhaps even he didn’t fully understand.

At the time, I was living with my paternal grandparents. During every school break, my brothers would go visit my parents, but I always refused to go. For me, it was a time of complete freedom, without my older brother around.

But that summer, I went to visit them too. I remember genuinely wanting to go. At the end of the summer break, before returning to my grandparents’ house, my mother gave us money to buy clothes and shoes. Normally, my brother handled all of that.

When we arrived at the market, I followed him until he told me to hurry up and buy what I needed. I felt stressed and confused because he made it very clear that he wasn’t going to help me. Instead, he put me under pressure.

We eventually stopped in front of a shoe vendor. There were all kinds of shoes. It was my last chance; otherwise we would go home empty-handed, and the next day I wouldn’t have any time left. I had to choose, but I didn’t know which shoes to buy. There was the question of quality, of price.

In Haiti, when you shop in those large markets, it’s easy to get taken advantage of, whether because of the quality or the price. There are no fixed prices—you have to negotiate, and I didn’t know how to do that. Stressed and under pressure, I chose a pair of handmade shoemaker’s shoes. The quality was certain. They would last for years. The problem was their weight and comfort. But I didn’t have time to think about that. The negotiation ended quickly. I don’t like bargaining. One or two prices, deal done.

For a brief moment, I felt grown-up and proud of having handled everything on my own. But that feeling lasted only a few seconds. My older brother’s laughter erased every bit of satisfaction and replaced it with shame and embarrassment. He criticized my choice and said I had paid far too much for the shoes. I think he was right, because that was his area of expertise. I was so angry with him. Throughout the entire purchase, I kept asking what he thought, whether he believed I had made a good choice. He kept repeating that he didn’t know—it was up to me to decide.

Decide? At the time, that responsibility was simply too heavy for me.

When we got home, he told the story to everyone. People laughed at me for a long time. I felt ridiculous and looked down upon.

After that incident, I never asked him to accompany me anywhere again. I began depending on no one. Whenever I bought something by myself, I would lower the price whenever I talked about it because I was afraid of being ridiculed again for having made a bad deal.

After my brother, I continued carrying that attitude for many years—with my friends and with the people around me. I had very little confidence in my own choices, so I generally avoided making them whenever I could.

That has its advantages. I don’t really have strong preferences. If something is good, then it’s good enough for me. At the same time, it can also create the impression that I lack originality.

Are my choices truly my own?

I quickly came to realize that what is truly mine is what I choose to make my own. Perhaps a choice wasn’t entirely mine at first, but the moment it aligns with who I am and I embrace it as my own, I believe I can consider it original to me.

In reality, we all began by depending on others before we ever depended on ourselves. Yet some of us never move beyond that stage. We remain dependent on our families, our friends, and the people around us. Perhaps we are afraid of making mistakes, of being ridiculed, or simply of being alone. Those are deeply human fears, and perhaps the only way to move beyond them is to accept our imperfections and the consequences that come with them.

When a baby learns to walk, they fall and get hurt, of course. Yet they keep getting back up, over and over again, until they can walk with confidence and balance. In a way, perhaps growing up requires us to go through the very same process.

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Mirror Question:

When was the first time you had to make an important decision on your own? How did that experience shape the confidence—or hesitation—you carry into your choices today?

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This Week’s Poem:

If this text brings you clarity, understanding and self-awareness, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to support this place.

With clarity,

Odel A
The Mirror Room

Refer a friend

December 2025

Big brother,

there isn’t only resentment
for you in my heart.
I know that now,
and in a way,
even as a child, I already knew.

Maybe that explains
why I kept trying,
again and again,
to keep a bridge between us.

But perhaps, I tell myself,
that bridge had to be broken
so that, at last, we could understand it,
so that, at last, I could understand it.

I am who I am today
because of you.
And perhaps you, too,
grew because of me.

I know you did
everything you could.
More than a brother,
you were like a guardian,
a second father.
You placed on me
the kind of pressure
only a parent places upon a child.

I saw you as my jailer;
perhaps you truly were.
But if I never lost my way,
it’s because you stayed watchful.
When I acted recklessly,
you knew how to stop
my attempts
to deceive.

Isn’t it strange,
don’t you think,
that sometimes the very reason
we hate someone
is also the reason
we owe them so much,
so much gratitude?

I still remember
that day when
you got into a fight at school for me.
You called me a coward,
and perhaps you were right,
because you didn’t know,
and you probably still don’t,
that I’d rather take the blow today
so I can strike harder tomorrow.

That’s just how I am,
but you’re different.
You don’t leave time
for revenge.
You defend yourself
right then and there.

We could have made a great team, you know.
Somewhere in my heart,
I still hold on
to a little of that hope.
You, the strength, and I, the mind,
together we could
shake the earth,
call down the rain,
lay waste to a world.

You have the strength,
of that I am certain.
After all,
you are my brother,
a courageous soldier,
proud and full of conviction.

I owe you so much.
I smile just thinking about it,
how, without realizing it,
you helped me surpass you,
to earn better grades than yours,
at times...
It’s a little funny, isn’t it?

You often said
that we were not
competing.
Who were you fooling?
I saw your efforts
to stay afloat,
to stay on top.
You had to,
with a little troublemaker
not too stupid brother like me.

Our rivalry taught me
independence, freedom.
You never tried
to force your vision on me.
You let me make mistakes.

Whether your reasons mattered to me or not,
it taught me
to stand on my own,
to defend my ideas,
to stand by them,
even when others disagreed.

I often tell this story
to friends,
how, in uncertainty,
each of us followed our own instinct.
We would argue,
and when we couldn’t
reach an agreement,
each of us made our own choice.
Our grades always had
a slight difference,
sometimes in your favor,
sometimes in mine.
Surely
because of those different choices.

Strangely enough,
I feel calmer now.
When I think of you,
there is less anger.
We still don’t speak,
but the weight is no longer the same,
at least, on my side.

I have emptied my heart;
the child has shed his tears.
Now there is room again for our values,
room again for respect,
love,
and
gratitude.

If one day you happen
to come across
these writings,
I want you to know:
you were one of the pillars
that helped build me.

A brother beyond a brother,
a mentor, a guardian,
a protector,
a worthy and exhausting rival,
a role model,
and also a trial.

Know that I will
always be grateful to you.

J-F.A

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Mirror Question:

Who in your life have you spent years blaming, only to realize they also helped shape some of your greatest strengths? What did they give you that you couldn’t see at the time, and how does recognizing that change the way you see both them—and yourself?

If you feel comfortable, I’d love to hear your story. Feel free to share it in the comments—I look forward to reading it.

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With clarity,

Odel A.
The Mirror Room

Check July's Monthly Clarity Guide

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We all carry an inheritance. Some things were passed down to us consciously. Others settled within us without us even realizing it. Ways of thinking. Automatic reactions. Fears we cannot always explain. Habits that simply seem to be part of our personality.

The June Monthly Guide invited us to revisit our past and our childhood wounds through the eyes of the adult we have become. By creating that distance, we can begin to see what the child could not understand at the time. This process requires neither forgiveness nor forgetting. But by uncovering the stories hidden behind certain wounds, we can begin to carry them differently—with greater compassion and understanding.

Throughout the month of July, our reflection on healing the inner child gradually led us to an even more personal subject: our identity. We began looking at our inheritances with greater perspective. Over time, some of them have become part of the person we are today.

In reality, many of our present-day attitudes are repeated behaviors the child developed to respond to a particular need or situation. In that sense, our childhood is the foundation of our identity.

If we compare ourselves to a tree, no matter how majestic it has become, it cannot look down on the seed from which it grew. Without that seed, it would not exist. It is, ultimately, the fully developed version of that seed.

The same is true for us. The adult is the developed version of the child.

In many cases, a seed does not choose the soil in which it falls. Some fall into rich soil and grow into strong, healthy trees. Others fall into less fertile ground and must struggle harder to grow. And sometimes a seed falls into barren soil, giving rise to a frail tree that struggles to survive and lives under difficult conditions.

Like the seed, we do not choose the country in which we are born, the culture in which we grow up, or the family that raises us. Yet those environments profoundly shape the people we become. We inherit far more from our surroundings than we often realize.

The purpose of this month’s guide is to revisit our past. The goal is not to reject or judge our childhood or the people around us, but to become aware of what we have inherited from them. In doing so, we can begin to determine what we want to carry forward and what we want to leave behind.

Some of our attitudes have already fulfilled the role they once served in childhood. Others simply need to be understood before they can be transformed. Not all of them need to be rejected. Some only ask that we change the way we carry them.

A tree cannot change the land in which it grows without outside help, but we can. That requires understanding our situation clearly so that we can finally see the changes we want to make within ourselves.

This guide is an invitation to develop that clarity. It does not seek to tell you who you are. It invites you to better understand what you have inherited so that you can choose more consciously what you wish to continue carrying.

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📖 The Monthly Clarity Guide — July 2026 is now available.

Inside you’ll find:

• Four in-depth reflections

• Four guided Clarity Practices

• Guided journaling prompts

• A complete monthly journey connecting every reflection together

• A closing reflection to help integrate everything you’ve explored

Whether you’re joining this journey for the first time or you’ve been reading these reflections for months, I hope this guide offers you what it offered me:

• A little more understanding.

• A little more clarity.

• And a little more freedom to become who you consciously choose to be.

Buy it on Gumroad

For paid subscribers

As always, this month’s guide is included with your subscription.

You’ll find an exclusive Gumroad discount code below that lets you download your personal copy at no additional cost. I distribute the guide through Gumroad so all editions are collected in one place, and it also gives readers the opportunity to leave a review if they found it valuable.

If you enjoy the guide, a short review would mean a great deal. It helps more readers discover The Mirror Room and supports the continued creation of these monthly workbooks.

With Clarity,

Odel A
The Mirror Room

Clarity before Direction.

We had to define who we were before we even understood what it meant to be someone. We adapted to the stories told around us, the principles passed down to us, the beliefs of a community, and above all, the behaviors of the people around us.

During childhood, we were unaware of the importance of the choices we were making. What may have started as a way to attract attention or a way to assert ourselves gradually became a repeated behavior, and eventually, a part of our identity.

Children are very emotionally intelligent. They notice changes in the attitudes of the people around them. They absorb the emotions surrounding them, and they adapt.

A child can sense when a parent is sad, happy, in a good mood, or in a bad one. They possess that emotional intelligence. What we lack at that stage is the ability to mentalize—that is, the ability to understand that other people’s behaviors, emotions, and reactions are influenced by their own mental states (thoughts, intentions, emotions, and needs), and not necessarily by us.

From a child’s perspective, things are either black or white; either for us or against us. We rarely see another person’s perspective, which is perfectly normal. Perhaps a child is not meant to understand someone else’s perspective because they don’t yet understand what it even means to have one. Instead, they develop their own based on what they absorb from the world around them.

Looking back at our childhood through adult eyes allows us to become aware of the behaviors we had to develop, our identity, our strengths, as well as our flaws.

As children, we do NOT consciously choose our identity.

A child does not say to themselves:

• I am going to become someone who avoids conflict.

• I am going to become someone who overexplains.

• I am going to become someone who stays silent to please others.

• I am going to become someone who always expects failure or who sabotages themselves.

These are not conscious decisions. And yet, one day, we realize that we have become that person. More often than not, it is the result of what we received during childhood and how we learned to respond to it at the time.

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Recently, someone at work made a remark that made me think deeply. I was quietly walking, lost in my thoughts, when I noticed one of my coworkers acting a little suspiciously. It wasn’t anything serious. It was as if she expected me to do something to tease her.

I stopped and asked,

“Why are you acting as if I’m about to do something to you?”

“Because you ALWAYS do something to annoy me,” she replied.

“Really? I do that all the time?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

She confirmed it with a smile.

Then I went back to focusing on my work.

Nevertheless, the thought stayed with me. I quickly realized she was right. I tease people. Not in a mean-spirited way—just enough to lighten the atmosphere. And if I notice someone doesn’t enjoy it, I stop. Most of the time, I do it to break the ice or perhaps to attract a little attention.

I began wondering where that behavior came from, and I thought about it for a long time. Then, while writing these reflections on healing the inner child, I began to see where it had started.

I grew up with my older brother. He was three years older than I was, and through one of those strange twists of providence, we ended up in the same class in third grade. From then on, we were almost always together. The same classroom. The same friends. We even looked alike physically—almost the same height—that people often mistook us for twins.

My brother was serious, responsible, and hardworking. He was usually among the students sitting in the front rows, paying close attention to everything. I, on the other hand, adopted the exact opposite behavior. Perhaps it was my way of distinguishing myself from him because I had grown tired of constantly being compared to him. I wanted to be seen for who I was.

So I became the little rebel, the teaser. I was usually found in the back rows among the students paying the least attention and spending their time bothering everyone else. I lived that way for more than a decade. Whenever my brother adopted one behavior, I often adopted the opposite.

I accumulated behaviors over the years that are still part of who I am today, even as an adult. It made me realize that becoming an adult does not mean becoming a completely new person, but simply becoming a more developed version of the child we once were. In other words, we become more responsible, develop a stronger sense of duty, and gain greater awareness of who we are and what we do.

Think of it like an updated version of a product. Take an iPhone, for example. The iPhone 17 is nothing more than an improved version of the original model. The underlying technology remains the same, but the latest version is more sophisticated, with new features developed over time.

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I like my playful side. It helps me interact with people and integrate into society more naturally.

Recently, I called an Uber to go home after work. The driver happened to be a fellow Haitian. I started talking to him in our native language, and he asked me:

“Ou pale kreyòl?” (”You speak Creole?”)

“Ayiti m grandi pandan 19 ane.” (”I was raised in Haiti for 19 years”), I told him.

Then he asked me,

“Kisa w ap fè la?” (”What are you doing in the U.S.?”)

Me: “Hm 🫩?”

“Kòman w fè twouve w la?” (”How did you end up in this country?”) it repeated.

There was no aggression in his voice, and he didn’t seem to be judging me. I quickly realized he was teasing me a little. So I answered in a serious tone.

“Monchè, dòmi m dòmi epi lè m reveye m wè m la.” (”My friend, I simply went to sleep, and when I woke up, I found myself here.”)

We laughed and had a wonderful conversation for the rest of the ride.

All of this is simply to say that not every part of our identity inherited from childhood needs to be rejected.

The child within us does not disappear, but we accumulate knowledge, experience, and wisdom.

The adult does not completely replace the child. They retain much of the child’s original architecture, but with greater experience, greater awareness, language, responsibility, and a wider range of possibilities for action.

Perhaps identity is not about becoming someone else, but about understanding who the child within us became, why, and deciding what we choose to carry into adulthood—and how.

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🪞 Mirror Question:

Which part of your childhood identity still feels authentically yours... and which part do you think you’ve simply outgrown?

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If this text brings you clarity, understanding and self-awareness, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to support this place.

With clarity,

Odel A
The Mirror Room

I believe this is the part that made this letter the hardest to write. It took me a week to finish it. It is still difficult to read today. The shame has not yet disappeared. It is a very heavy and emotionally suffocating piece. To be honest, my hand still trembles, and I still hesitate to make it public. But I hope—yes, I truly hope—that as you read it, you will resist the urge to judge either me or my older brother. This goes far beyond the simple wounds between two brothers.

If you haven't read Part One yet, you can find it here.

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…As we grew older,
our relationship
only continued to deteriorate.

And yet,
I kept trying,
again and again,
to shorten the distance between us.

I did not understand.

Or perhaps, unconsciously,
I was simply avoiding
facing that reality.

I felt
more and more invisible,
pushed aside.

We had the same friends,
and yet loneliness
remained my most faithful companion.

You were kinder to strangers
than to me,
your little brother.

But yes,
the child kept his eyes closed.

I refused to accept that truth.

You were more willing
to help others than me.

You forced me to become
independent of you,
independent of us.

And I think
I became like you—

kinder to strangers
than to those closest to me.

I did not understand your reasons.
I still don’t.
But I never blamed you.

I had taken my distance as well,
yet I still spoke to you
when it was necessary,
when it truly mattered.

Like the time
I was about to leave Colombia.

It was a complicated journey.
A dangerous one.

I could have lost my life.
I almost did.

A perilous crossing.

I turned to you for help.

Life had not been all kind to me in Colombia.
I was struggling financially.

You promised to help me.
You gave me hope.
But in vain.

Yet that is not
what broke our bond.

Do you remember?

When I arrived in Mexico,
I was at my lowest.
No money.
Nothing at all.

And despite everything,
I came to you once again.

You told me you couldn’t help.

I understood.
I accepted it.

Then you came back
with reasonable questions:
How much did I need?
Where exactly was I?

You gave me hope,
fed my faith,
only to stab my heart.

You said you wanted the information
for a friend
who had already made the journey.

Are you aware
of the pain you caused me?

Maybe.
Or maybe not.

But know this:

That was the moment
I laid down my arms.

The moment I stopped trying
to bring us closer.

I never held a grudge,
and yet,
I can be resentful.

But you are my brother.
My family.

To me, that bond is sacred.

I didn’t understand it then,
but I didn’t want
us to drift apart.

Even after I left the country,
I did everything I could
to stay in touch.

I never called often—
phone calls have never been
my favorite thing—

but I wrote to you often.

I never hid anything from you.
I never lied to you.

I shared everything with you:
my ideas,
my writing projects,

even when I still had no confidence
in myself
or in my talents.

SO TELL ME, WHY?

Why did you betray me like that?

Why did you always make me
the villain of our story
in the eyes of others?

Why did you make me carry the blame
for our broken bond?

Why did you paint me
as ungrateful,
as a hypocrite,
as someone cold and contemptuous?

Why did you tell everyone
that I despised you?

Why did you tell them
that I no longer tried
to stay in touch?

And yet,
you know it,
I know it,
and God knows it too:

I was the one
who kept trying.

If I did not write to you,
you never did.

And do you know
how much I suffered in Colombia?

Alone.

Far from family.
Far from friends.

I no longer speak
to our old mutual friends.

Because of you.

They wrote to accuse me,
to judge me,
to condemn me
for betraying our brotherhood.

I could not bear it.

So I let my vulgarity
run free.

To you,
perhaps it is nothing.

But to me,
it is a taboo.

I do not give anyone,
outside of family,
the right to judge us.

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I told Father, you know.
I told our older brother too.

I told them:

You will always be my brother,
but I will never again
ask you for help.

And now,
the days go by,
and we no longer speak.

I stopped trying.
You did too—
as always.

We no longer speak,
not even on important occasions.

We act
as though the other no longer exists.

No more happy birthdays.
No more Merry Christmas.
No more Happy New Year.

Nothing.

Father is our only intermediary.

That is where we are now,
big brother.

Isn’t it shameful?

Perhaps.

To me, it is, at least a little.

But would you understand me
if I tried again?

Maybe.

But I still resent you too much.

I don’t hate you.

No.

I still have things
to process,
to understand,
about myself,
and about you as well.

Because today,
I have realized
that I never truly
put myself in your place.

You must have suffered too.
You must have lived through your own kind of hell.
You still carry your wounds,
don’t you, brother?

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Writing has helped me
grow,
heal,
see,
and understand
with a little more clarity.

I must admit,
my resentment
is slowly fading away.

I no longer have the strength
to hate you,
to hold it against you,
to carry these heavy feelings.

No more strength to fight,
nor the strength
to carry our relationship
all by myself.

Today,
I ask myself:

What would I have done in your place?

Perhaps worse.

Perhaps not.

But I am not better than you.

I must also thank you.

You remain,
just as when we were children,
a pillar of this family.

You take care of our parents,
even if that is not your intention.

Perhaps.

You relieve some of the pressure from me.

Thank you, brother,

for being there for our parents,
for supporting them.

You make my freedom
a little easier to carry,
giving me a certain peace of mind.

You have your own battles,
I know.

I don’t worry about you,

because you are the stronger one,
the more disciplined one
between the two of us.

If I had your discipline,
your dedication,
I would have accomplished
many things already.

That is your strength.

Know this:

Yes, my brother,
you remain my family.
The same flesh,
the same blood.

Nothing and no one
will ever take that away from us.

Even today,
I would still
have your back,
gladly.

If one day
you find yourself in trouble,

I will be there
to help you,
to support you.

I would brave the sun,
the wind,
the storm for you,
for my family.

We were never taught
to speak about our feelings.
It was never a habit
in our home.

But know this:

your bastard of a little brother
truly loves you.

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Mirror Question

Is there someone you stopped reaching out to—not because you stopped loving them, but because you no longer had the strength to carry the relationship alone?

What finally led you to lay down your arms?

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Thank you for reading.

If you’d like to support my work and help The Mirror Room continue to grow, consider becoming a paid subscriber.

With Clarity

Odel A.
The Mirror Room

These reflections are intended for self-observation and personal exploration. They are not a substitute for professional mental health support. If a reflection brings up overwhelming emotions, consider pausing and seeking support from a qualified professional.

The Mirror

We often think of identity as something we discover. But, it is also something we build. Long before we could describe ourselves, we were already learning how to live in the world around us.

• We watched.

• We copied.

• We adapted.

Some parts of who we became were shaped by love. Some by fear and others by necessity.

I smiled a lot. Long before, too much sometime. And for a long time, I never questioned why I smiled that often.

When someone insulted me, when I felt hurt, I simply smiled. For years, I thought it was just my personality. But lately I started to wonder if it had started much earlier.

I grew up in a home filled with conflict. I hated seeing people that I loved hurt each other with words. As a child, I quietly chose not to act that way.

So I’m hurt, instead of fighting back, I smiled. I walked away. I kept my anger inside.

Today, I no longer need to silence myself the way the child did. I have learned healthier ways to express my limits.

Yet the smile remains.

It’s true that some parts of our identity may have begun as protection. some may still reflect who we truly are.

Others may simply be old strategies we never stopped repeating.

This week’s practice is an invitation to ask:

Which parts of my identity still belong to me... and which parts were built to survive?

This Week’s Clarity

This practice will help you:

• recognize a part of your identity that may have developed through adaptation;

• distinguish between the strategy that shaped it and the person you are becoming;

• consider whether this part of yourself still reflects your values today.

You do not need to reject every part of your childhood. You are simply learning to recognize what you inherited... what you built... and what you now choose.

The Structural Lens

Environment → Adaptation → Repeated Identity → Adult Awareness → Conscious Choice

Children do not simply react to events.

They also begin becoming someone.

Over time, repeated adaptations can feel so familiar that they become part of our identity.

Awareness allows us to ask a new question:

Is this still who I want to be?

Before You Look

This practice is not about deciding that your personality is fake. Nor is it about blaming the child for adapting. The child responded to the world they knew. Many of those responses were intelligent. Some may still serve you. Some may not.

The purpose of this practice is not to erase your identity. It is to understand how it was built. Because sometimes what feels like personality began as survival.

Sometimes it became something beautiful.

Sometimes it quietly asks to evolve.

Gladly you do not have to decide today.

Simply observe.

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“History repeats itself.”

We usually hear it when talking about events that happen again, such as major economic crises. Within a family, it can describe people who repeat the behaviors of their parents or previous generations, or who end up living through similar circumstances.

On a more personal level, we often use it to describe people who keep making the same mistakes. Someone who repeatedly finds themselves in toxic relationships, for example. With every new partner, the same patterns seem to emerge.

While reflecting on the healing of the inner child and revisiting my past through adult eyes, I found myself repeating that saying in an even more personal context: identity.

I believe most of us don’t simply want to heal. We also want to understand why we became the person we are today.

Many aspects of our adult behavior have their roots in childhood. Some of our reactions, attitudes, and habits are simply repetitions of strategies the child within us once created.

Our childhood as a whole—its joyful moments as well as its wounds—forms the foundation of our identity. We began defining who we were long before we even understood what identity meant. We learned by copying others and adapting to different situations. In many ways, we first came to define ourselves through other people.

We learned their language, their way of thinking, their values, their culture, and their way of living. These became our foundation. Then, as we grew, we had to adapt to our environment in order to live—or sometimes simply to survive.

The child within us, highly sensitive to emotions, developed different strategies to get what they needed, protect what felt precious, or simply avoid trouble. They created strategies:

• to preserve a relationship,

• to stay safe,

• to avoid rejection,

• to avoid shame,

• to remain loved,

• to avoid becoming what they witnessed…

As those strategies were repeated over and over again, they gradually became behaviors we still carry today, even though we often forget where they came from.

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I have always been someone who smiles.

Even when someone insults me, my first instinct is usually to smile and decide later how I want to respond. For a long time, I hated that about myself. I didn’t feel like a “real man.” I believed that if someone insulted me, I should immediately answer back.

But I never did.

I would absorb the insult, smile, and quietly distance myself from that person.

I rarely get angry, and when I do, it always surprises the people around me. Most of them genuinely believe that I never get angry.

I had never really questioned this until I began writing these reflections. Only then did I start wondering where this habit came from.

I think it is an echo of my childhood.

I grew up in a home filled with conflict. My parents argued constantly. It brought me an incredible amount of shame, and deep inside, I didn’t want to become like that.

Even as a child, when someone insulted me, instead of insulting them back, I would smile, keep my anger to myself, and distance myself afterward. When I lose control of my anger, I know I can become vulgar and hurt people with my words. Somehow, the child in me found a way to avoid repeating the same patterns I saw in my parents.

I don’t even remember when it started, but smiling became part of my identity.

Today, however, things are different.

The child kept everything inside because he didn’t yet have the tools to express his emotions or set healthy boundaries. Today, I’m no longer obligated to accept insults with a smile. I’ve learned healthier ways to express myself and respond when necessary.

But the smile has remained.

And I actually like that part of myself.

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This realization brings me back to the idea that childhood is the foundation of who we are. When adults take the time to revisit that childhood, they may discover a different perspective—a different way of seeing themselves.

Perhaps with greater clarity.

Greater peace.

Greater serenity.

Perhaps the child built an identity simply to survive.

Now the adult has the opportunity to discover which parts of that identity still truly belong to them... and which parts they are finally free to leave behind.

People often say that understanding a problem is already half the solution.

I don’t consider childhood to be a problem—not as a whole. But being able to revisit our earliest values and experiences with clarity gives us a much stronger sense of direction moving forward.

To me, it’s like receiving a surge of strength. Or perhaps even more accurately, like gradually finding where each piece belongs in an enormous puzzle that is someone’s life.

It is a return to the authentic self.

Perhaps healing the inner child isn’t only about revisiting our wounds and tending to them. Perhaps it is also about recognizing and understanding the old strategies that slowly became part of our everyday behavior.

That kind of clarity can give us greater objectivity... and greater freedom in the choices we make.

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🪞 Mirror Question:

Which parts of your identity still feel like you... and which parts may simply be strategies the child within you created to survive?

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This Week’s Poem

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“The greatest discovery in life is self-discovery. Until you find yourself, you will always be someone else. Become yourself.”

— Myles Munroe

If this reflection resonated with you, consider taking the next step.

The Clarity Practice is where reflection becomes personal exploration. Through guided questions, writing exercises, and practical frameworks, it helps you uncover the childhood conclusions that may still be shaping your relationships, decisions, and identity—so you can begin making more conscious choices instead of repeating unconscious patterns.

The longer a pattern remains unseen, the more opportunities it has to shape your life.

Unlock this week’s Clarity Practice by becoming a paid subscriber.

If becoming a paid subscriber isn’t possible right now, that’s completely okay.

Every reflection, poem, and practice shared in The Mirror Room takes time, thought, and care to create. If this work has helped you better understand yourself, your relationships, or the life you are living, you can also support its continuation by leaving a tip.

Your support doesn’t simply fund another post.

It gives this work the time and freedom to keep growing—and encourages me to continue creating resources that help more people see themselves more clearly.

Thank you for being part of The Mirror Room.

With clarity,

Odel A.
The Mirror Room

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Before reading today’s poem, I’d like to share a part of my story. Perhaps it will help you better understand the context behind this letter.

I had a turbulent childhood. I never stayed in one place for very long. I lived almost like a nomad.

I have no memories of my first six years. I was told that after I was born, my mother lived with my paternal grandparents for about a year. Once she had finished breastfeeding me, she left to join my father in the capital, leaving me with my grandmother. It seems I lived there until I was six years old. My parents visited us often, although I no longer remember who was present or absent during those years.

Then my mother came to take us to live with her. From that point on, my memories begin to appear, though only in fragments. I lived with my mother, my father, and my older brother. My mother wasn’t around very much. She left early every morning to run her business in the city’s main market and returned home late in the evening. During the day, my brother and I stayed with one of her sisters.

Then, one evening, when I was nine years old, she became seriously ill. Our aunt came to pick us up, and we were sent to live with our maternal grandparents. That was the moment my story with my brother truly began. By a twist of fate, I ended up in the same classroom same grade as him, despite our three-year age difference.

Everything changed.

I lived with my grandparents for about a year and a half. Then my mother recovered and came to take us, and we moved somewhere else. We lived there for two years before she became ill again, and we had to move in with our paternal grandparents for six months. After that, we returned to live with our parents for another year before moving back once again to our grandparents’ house.

By the time I reached adolescence, I remember telling myself:

No more moving. I chose to stay with my grandma.

I never really felt a particularly strong connection with either my mother or my father’s presence. Their absence didn’t affect me as much as one might expect. I suppose I had simply become used to it.

But it was different with my older brother.

He was the only person who was always there through every move, every change, every new beginning. He is the most constant figure in my childhood memories.

And our relationship was anything but simple.

A mixture of rivalry, brotherhood... and, at times, something that felt almost parental.

This letter became the longest one I have ever written—more than 1,900 words. I discovered that I had more to say to my brother than I ever did to either of my parents. It was also the hardest letter to write, and, even now, the one I feel the most anxious about sharing.

To keep the rhythm of this series, I’ll be sharing it in two parts.

As you read it, I simply ask that you resist the urge to judge or take sides.

This letter is messy—just as the emotional turmoil I felt while writing it was.

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December 16, 2025

Brother,

These words are for you,
even though I strongly doubt you will ever read them.

I will not force fate by sending them to you.
We still carry too many tangled feelings between us.

But I hope that one day,
the universe will somehow lead you to these words.

And if/when that day comes,
I hope—
yes, I deeply hope—
that you will take the time to read them slowly,
to feel the weight of every word,
to see my sincerity through all this chaos.

There are four boys in our family,
but you and I are the only two
who share exactly the same roots.

Our paths,
our destinies,
our lives became intertwined
without our consent,
without any regard for how we felt.

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We were close once.
At least, I believed we were.

Perhaps I was still too young,
too innocent,
too much of a child
to see the distance that already existed between us.

As far back as I can remember,
we were always together.

And even when life’s troubles came
and our family had to separate,
the two of us were always kept together.

We grew up together,
were raised together,
and did almost everything together.

When did distance find its way between us?

Perhaps it was then.

It is the only moment that comes to mind.

Maybe I am wrong
to think that our drifting apart
began when we ended up
in the same class in elementary school.

Because from that moment on,
you no longer had anything that was yours alone.

Your social life and mine
became completely intertwined.

And yet, you were never a bad student.

You were hardworking,
disciplined,
intelligent.

It was not your fault,
nor was it mine,
but the fault of adults
and of a culture still bound by old ways.

You passed your exams brilliantly,
but through negligence,
our parents did not claim your report card in time.

It is crazy how a simple piece of paper
can influence someone’s destiny.

And me?
I was simply lucky.

Oh, brother,
how much pressure did you have to carry
all those years?

You never complained.

But what older brother wants to find himself
in the same class
as his annoying little brother,
three years younger?

Our parents treated us differently.

The same classroom,
yet separate set of tools for each of us.

And still,
they never lightened your burden.

Every time you tried to escape,
to choose an activity for yourself,
I was forced into it as well.

I never wanted to study English.

I loved Spanish much more.

But I could never say no to Father.
You know that.

You were my older brother,
yet you lost every right that came with it:

your authority,
your privileges,
your chance.

An older brother walks ahead
and guides those who follow.

But fate forced us
to walk side by side.

I forgot that too.
And I challenged your authority.
I disrespected you.

I even fought you once.

You knew how to assert your strength.
You gave me a good beating.
I deserved it, I know that now.

But all of that—
that’s normal between brothers,
isn’t it?

I have always admired you, you know.
I was simply too proud to admit it.

Growing up beside you
felt suffocating to me as well.

You were like a warden,
the guardian of my prison.

I know you did not choose that role.

Our parents,
often absent,
placed that responsibility on your shoulders.

They forced me to stick to you,
to follow you,
to pester you.

You must have truly hated
that absurd situation.

Now I finally understand, my brother.

I understand that perhaps
you saw me as a rival.

Maybe.

It is only an impression.

But I remember
that you always tried to be the best of us.

And I must admit
that I did not make it easy for you.

You were good
at everything you did.

I was too,
in my own way.

You were a dedicated student,
hardworking, disciplined.

I was the opposite.

I rarely held a book,
and I seldom did my homework.

For everyone,
your success was a certainty,
while mine remained an uncertainty.

Yet I never failed.

Do you know why?

Always right behind you,
sometimes even surpassing you.

Do you know how?

It was because of you.

Nature gifted me
with a good auditory memory.

When you read,
when you studied,
people could hear you
from the other end of the neighborhood.

All I had to do
was listen to you,
and I would remember everything.

I succeeded
because of you.

So know this, my brother:

I am truly
grateful to you.

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People compared us constantly—

our grades,
our behavior,
our respectfulness.

They even thought we were twins,

because of our height,
our activities,
despite the three years gap between us.

We were compared far too often.
An unavoidable situation.

And how I hated that.

I imagine you did too,
didn’t you?

I did everything
to be seen for myself,
not as a reflection of you.

You were calm and serious.

I acted like a fool.
I wandered.
A rebel at heart.

You adapted to the system.
I challenged it.

I only wanted
to become fully myself.

To be continued….

Mirror Question:

Growing up, were you ever compared to someone else— or asked to carry a role that was never really yours?

How do you think that shaped the way you see yourself today?

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More from Thw Letters to My Family:

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If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With Clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

These reflections are intended for self-observation and personal exploration. They are not a substitute for professional mental health support. If a reflection brings up overwhelming emotions, consider pausing and seeking support from a qualified professional.

The Mirror

Some habits do not begin as habits. They begin as solutions.

• A child learns to stay quiet because speaking feels unsafe.

• Another learns to apologize quickly because conflict feels dangerous.

• Someone else learns to explain everything because they are rarely believed.

For me, it was overexplaining.

For years, I couldn’t understand why I always felt the need to keep explaining myself, even after I had already made my point. I wanted to stop, but the habit kept returning. Only later did I realize I wasn’t simply trying to communicate. I was trying to be believed.

At the time, these responses may have helped us. They protected something important.

Years later, however, the situation may have changed while the strategy remained.

What once helped us survive may quietly shape the way we communicate, relate to others, or see ourselves.

This week’s practice is an invitation to ask:

What if one of my habits began as protection rather than personality?

This Week’s Clarity

This practice will help you:

• recognize a behavior that may have developed as an adaptation to your environment;

• distinguish between the need that created the habit and the habit itself;

• consider whether that strategy still serves the person you are becoming.

The Structural Lens

Emotional Need → Protective Strategy → Repeated Habit → Hidden Cost → Intentional Response

Children often respond to what they experience with the tools available to them.

A strategy that once met an important need can continue long after the original situation has changed.

Awareness gives us the opportunity to choose again.

Before You Look

This practice is not about blaming your parents.

It is also not about criticizing the child you once were.

The child responded with the resources they had.

Today, you are simply asking whether the same response is still necessary.

You are not judging the strategy.

You are examining its place in your life today.

🪞 Mirror One — What Was This Habit Trying to Protect?

Think of one behavior that keeps appearing in your life.

Perhaps you...

• explain yourself too much;

• avoid conflict;

• apologize quickly;

• try to please everyone;

• struggle to trust others;

• become defensive;

• withdraw when something hurts.

Now ask yourself:

What might this behavior have been protecting when it first appeared?

Did it help you feel safer?

More accepted?

Less criticized?

More understood?

Stay with the need rather than the behavior.

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Before I began reflecting and trying to understand my childhood, I had never considered my father responsible for any of it. Unconsciously, I blamed my mother far more than him. In the story my mind had constructed, he was the hero.

Perhaps because I learned very early that when my mother wanted to abort me, he did everything he could to stop her. He replaced the medication. Those two stories always came together: my mother wanted the abortion, and my father prevented it.

I think that, unconsciously, I saw him as my savior. And like every story, there was an antagonist. That role naturally fell to my mother.

Today, after revisiting that period of my life and reflecting on what I inherited from both of them, I admitted for the first time that my father was just as responsible as my mother. Like her, he continued telling that story, and it also created an emotional distance between me and both of them—a kind of imbalance.

I believe that seeing him as my savior, as someone I could always feel safe with, brought me many good things, but it also created many difficulties.

I am deeply grateful to him. He is a wonderful father. Nevertheless, whenever I try to understand the roots of my fears, many of them lead me back to him and to moments from my childhood.

Of course, this is not about blaming him. Rather, it helped me understand something important: our blind affection for a parent can hide many of the childhood wounds we still carry. Their influence can be much deeper than we realize.

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Trauma does not come only from physical or psychological abuse. A lack of trust from our parents, for example, can have far deeper consequences than we might imagine. Unfortunately, that too becomes part of what we inherit from them—or more precisely, behaviors we develop because of them.

Not long ago, I realized that I have a tendency to over-explain myself. Even when I feel I have expressed myself clearly and already given enough information to convince the other person, I often feel the need to keep adding more. I always have this urge to continue persuading them. Naturally, it was something I deeply disliked about myself.

The sad reality is that the more we explain ourselves, the less effective our words become. Even when we are telling the truth, too many explanations often create more doubt than trust.

Many times I told myself I was going to stop overexplaining. The decision was clear. I wanted to be direct and concise. Yet every time, I found myself explaining too much before I even realized I was doing it. It even affected my writing.

I could not understand why it kept happening when I genuinely wanted to stop. So I began observing myself. Only recently did I begin to understand.

How can we solve a problem if we do not even know where it comes from?

In Haiti, there is a common belief that children are always wrong when they are in conflict with an adult. When there is a disagreement between a child and an adult, the question is never even asked. The child is automatically considered guilty and punished, even when they are right.

In Haitian culture, parents often sided with the adult even when they knew the child was right, believing they were protecting the child from the cruelty of adults.

I believe this practice is no longer as common today.

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As a child, I was respectful, and I hated losing. Whenever someone reported bad behavior about me to my parents, I always tried to defend myself, but it was useless.

My father would clearly explain why he had to side with the adult even when he knew I was right. Intellectually, I understood his reasoning. But a part of me refused to accept it. So I kept trying to defend myself.

As I grew older, these situations became less frequent. But that tendency had not disappeared in my father. It had simply found another foundation.

No matter what people told my father about me, if the person was older than I was, he seemed to believe them automatically. Even when I defended myself, he sometimes acted as though he understood and believed me, only to later insist that I apologize to the other person or adapt to the situation.

For example, while I was living in Colombia, I often tried to contact one of my uncles. Almost every time I called, I don’t know whether he thought I was going to ask him for help, but he almost never answered. Eventually, it was always one of his children who answered the phone, telling me he was not there. Somehow, he was never available whenever I reached out after asking him for a little help.

After several attempts, I stopped contacting him completely.

Years later, when I was preparing to leave Colombia, my mother contacted him so he could put me in touch with some members of the family. He told them that I had stopped talking to him, that I never answered his calls or messages anymore.

When my father called to scold me, I told him the whole story.

He acted as though he believed me, but in the end, he still insisted that I should not behave that way. He told me I should not disrespect a member of the family.

He called me several more times about the same situation.

And every single time, I had to explain myself all over again.

This pattern had started when I was very young and continued until I was twenty-seven years old.

Over-explaining had become part of my personality.

It was a trait I had developed because of the way my father related to me.

I think part of the reason was that my father still saw me as a child, despite the fact that I was already an adult. Very often, parents feel that time has passed so quickly that they never fully realize their children have grown up.

Eventually, I had to help my father see that reality.

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Growing up, I had been taught that talking back to your parents was a sign of disrespect. And I truly respect my parents deeply. That is why I accepted my father’s attitude for so many years without ever rebelling.

But eventually, it became too much. And I could no longer stay silent.

On my journey to the United States, I had to cross Mexico. Things did not go as planned.

We had a plan, but the impatience of the people traveling with me led us into several mistakes. I had run out of money, and even though I disagreed with their decisions, I had no choice but to continue with them.

After spending almost all of our savings on bus tickets to Mexico City, we were unfortunately detained by immigration authorities. We spent two days in a detention center.

The treatment was not bad. Paradoxically, I actually felt relieved when it happened. (That is a story for another time.)

Before we were detained, my father had put me in contact with one of his friends who had promised to send me some money during the journey. I had already given him all the information he needed.

Two days later, after being released from detention, I realized that the man had never sent the money.

I contacted my father.

He told me that the man had said it was my fault because I had never sent him a picture of my ID.

I explained to my father that the man was lying. He did not need my ID to send the money. He already had all the necessary information.

But once again, my father did not believe me. The more I tried to explain, the angrier he became. Eventually, he began insulting me.

I was so angry that, had he been anyone other than my father, God alone knows what I would have said that day. We probably would never have spoken again.

At that point in my life, I did not yet have the self-control I have today.

I remember recording a first voice message filled with all that anger. Then I deleted it. After calming down, I recorded another one, this time trying to reason with him.

I asked him questions like:

“Do you really think I want to be sitting in a bus station with no money to buy a ticket while everyone else is ready to leave? Do you think I want to spend the entire day without being able to buy anything to eat? Can you imagine the frustration and humiliation I feel right now, having to depend on people who are not even truly my friends? Do you think I chose to suffer just because I am being sturborn?”

There was something else I wanted him to understand. I told him that I had not contacted him because I wanted to. I had contacted him because I had no other choice.

That message must have reached him. Because from that day on, he began treating me like an adult. He supported me in his own way for the rest of the journey. And whenever I shared something with him, his reactions were different.

That experience taught me something important:

Talking back to your parents is not, in itself, disrespectful. The disrespect lies in the way we speak to them.

I believe it is important to earn the respect of our parents as well, within healthy boundaries and in healthy ways.

Even today, my father remains my best friend. He is still one of my greatest role models, and I have inherited so much from him.

I am deeply grateful for everything he has taught me. I began my own journey inspired by his story of resilience, courage, and generosity.

I hope his work will live on. I hope his legacy will outlive both him and me.

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🪞 Mirror Question:

When you look at your parents through adult eyes, what part of your identity suddenly begins to make sense?

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This Week’s Poem

CTA

“The greatest discovery in life is self-discovery. Until you find yourself, you will always be someone else. Become yourself.”
— Myles Munroe

If this reflection resonated with you, take the next step.

The Clarity Practice is where reflection becomes action. It helps you uncover the childhood conclusions still shaping your relationships, decisions, and identity—so you can begin making conscious choices instead of repeating unconscious patterns.

The longer a pattern remains unseen, the more opportunities it has to shape your life.

Unlock this week’s Clarity Practice by becoming a paid subscriber.

If you can’t subscribe today, you can still support this work with a tip. Your support helps me continuing this work with more freedom and peace in mind.

Thank you for being part of The Mirror Room.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Leave a tip

what can I say about you?
In my heart,
you carry the dignity of a king.

You were not always there,
not physically,
but I always felt your presence.
Despite the distance,
you knew how to make yourself present.

You taught me so much:
the value of hard work,
the wisdom of minding my own business,
of staying out of other people’s affairs,
of not judging them.

You knew when to speak,
when to use the rod of correction.
You knew how to inspire fear,
but even more, respect.
You knew when to be a father,
and when to simply be a friend.

The greatest lessons in life,
I learned from you.

When Mom punished me
and I refused
to eat the food she had cooked,
you punished me a second time.

Not out of cruelty,
but to teach me to respect
the value of Mom’s effort.

Anger should not take away gratitude,
nor our appreciation
for the efforts of others.

You never let us suffer.
You gave us
what you
had never received.

You believed in education
and made it a priority.

I can still hear Grandpa
saying that education
was nothing but a waste of money.

But you,
you wanted us to become more
than what you had been:
educated men,
not simply people
working in the fields.

Yet you never looked down on any kind of work.

You taught us to live simply.

You wanted us to be capable
of living—or surviving—
through any situation,
in any society.

You were not perfect either.

You forced me to study,
to learn everything
my brother wanted to learn:
music, computers, English...

I understand now,
and I respect your intention.

You wanted to give
my brother and me
the same tools
to face life,
you used to say.

It was admirable.
I know that.

And those skills
have truly served me well.

But I wanted, at least,
to have a say.

Your words left their mark on me.
Some of them hurt.

But you did not act
out of cruelty.

No one taught you
how to be a father either.

You did a good job.

Today, your story inspires me:
your resilience, your perseverance,
your courage and your kindness,
despite all the blows life dealt you.

Sometimes I tell myself
that if you had possessed
the knowledge I have today,
you would be the richest man
in the family.

And yet,
you are the one who gave me
the opportunity to gain that knowledge.

I intend to use it
to honor you,
to make you proud.

You know,
people often hear me say:
“My father taught me...”

I even connect you
to lessons
I learned on my own.

Because within me,
in every circumstance,
I always find
some piece of your wisdom
to guide me.

Despite our differences,
you were the one
I felt closest to
in our family.

Sometimes, we would simply laugh,
have fun,
and forget the difference
between father and son.

I followed you everywhere
like a little tail.

They called you gran plantè,
and me ti plantè.

Because we were like old friends.

Not just a father and a son,
but above all,
a father and his son.

Dad,
my heart is filled with your values,
your lessons, your principles, your hopes.

I can only thank God
for choosing you
to be my old man.

And I am grateful,
proud to be
your rebellious son.

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🪞 Mirror Question:

Who is the person whose lessons still guide your life today... even when they are no longer beside you?

Leave a comment

CTA

If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Leave a comment

These reflections are intended for self-observation and personal exploration. They are not a substitute for professional mental health support. If a reflection brings up overwhelming emotions, consider stopping and seeking support from a qualified professional.

The Mirror

Sometimes, we become a little like the people we promised ourselves we would never become.

We notice the same reaction. The same tone. The same way of shutting down, losing control, avoiding conflict, or hurting someone.

And the realization can be uncomfortable.

For me, it was my impulsiveness.

I had seen my mother lose control of her emotions. I knew how destructive those moments could become. I hated that behavior.

Then, at some point, people around me began noticing something similar in me.

Even my father.

At first, I felt ashamed.

How could I repeat a behavior I had condemned for so long?

But eventually, I began asking a different question.

Not:

Why am I becoming like her?

But:

What model did I actually learn?

Sometimes, knowing what we do not want is not the same as knowing what we want instead.

This week’s practice is an invitation to notice one pattern you may have inherited without consciously choosing it—and to begin giving yourself another model.

This Week’s Clarity

This practice will help you:

• notice a behavior or reaction you may have learned from your environment;

• separate the pattern you observed from the person you want to become;

• create a clearer model for how you want to respond instead.

You do not need to change the pattern today. But first, you still need to see it.

The Structural Lens

Observed Pattern → Internalized Model → Automatic Repetition → Awareness → Chosen Model → Practiced Response

As children, we learn by observing what happens around us.

Some of those patterns become familiar before we are old enough to question them.

Later, familiarity can become repetition.

That is where awareness gives us another possibility:

to stop defining ourselves only by the model we inherited and begin practicing the model we choose.

Before You Look

Recognizing a behavior you once condemned in someone else can bring shame.

You may think:

How did I become like this?

Try not to use this practice to attack yourself.

The purpose is not to decide that you are becoming your mother, your father, or anyone else.

You are looking at a pattern.

Patterns can be observed.

And what can be observed can sometimes be practiced differently.

You do not need to solve everything today.

You can start by choosing just one pattern.

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The same seems to be true of emotional wounds.

In children, the effects can be even more profound. A trauma born from a single event can shape a person’s development on many levels. It can influence our self-esteem, our sense of worth, our relationships with others, and even the way we treat people ourselves.

A childhood wound can make us so kind that we sacrifice ourselves to please others, or so hurt that we become cruel. It can deeply influence the kind of person we grow into.

However, when we take the time to look back and become aware of the things our childhood self could neither see nor understand, we give ourselves an opportunity to heal—to treat the infections that formed within our identity.

From there, we can begin to examine the legacy our parents left us.

Many people believe that a good legacy only comes from good parents. I don’t think that’s true. A good role model is not always an excellent parent. Even the worst person can become an important teacher. We can learn from every kind of person. It is simply a matter of perspective.

A good parent teaches us how to treat others. They pass down values and principles. A bad parent, at the very least, teaches us what we do not want to become. In both cases, we receive an invaluable inheritance.

I am not praising abusive or cruel behavior. As a reminder, this series is not about childhood trauma or assigning blame. It is about looking at those wounds through adult eyes so that we can make peace with the child within us.

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There is one pattern I have noticed over and over again.

Sometimes we end up repeating the very behaviors we condemn in others.

In other words, we may find ourselves perpetuating the same patterns we once criticized in our parents.

I often criticized my mother’s impulsiveness and the way she would lose control of her emotions. Yet, at one point in my own life, I began behaving the same way.

The people around me noticed it. Even my father.

At first, it bothered me deeply. I was ashamed. I had seen how destructive that behavior could be, and the thought of becoming like that filled me with disgust.

Eventually, I found myself asking a question:

Why?

Why do we sometimes repeat the very mistakes we are trying so hard to avoid?

How do we become like the people we once criticized?

It seems natural that a child raised in a stable home with healthy parents will often develop healthy character traits. When they become kind or responsible adults, no one is surprised.

The same can be true for a child raised in an unstable environment where unhealthy behaviors are the norm.

As the saying goes, we are our parents’ children. That goes far beyond genetics. It reminds me of the idea that “a person is the product of their environment.”

Imagine a Spanish-born baby raised in England by an English family.

They will most likely behave like an English native. They will not automatically speak Spanish simply because their biological parents did. Nor will they instinctively know Spanish culture just because it belongs to their ancestors.

They will absorb the language and the culture of the environment in which they grow up.

Children learn by observing and absorbing what happens around them—the behaviors, the reactions, the way people interact with the world.

Sometimes we see a man who spent his childhood criticizing his father’s violence toward his mother, only to repeat the very same pattern years later. He adopts the same destructive behaviors he once hated. Somehow, despite all his efforts, he finds himself trapped in the very cycle he wanted to escape.

I believe many of these people may end up hating themselves. They know the cost of those behaviors. Yet they feel powerless to stop repeating them.

Which brings us back to the original question:

Why do we sometimes repeat the very patterns we condemn?

Why do we become like the people we once deeply resented?

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Knowing what we do NOT want doesn’t necessarily mean we know what we DO want.

The child lived through those experiences. They witnessed both the beauty and the damage caused by their parents’ behaviors.

Those images became deeply rooted in their mind.

Even if our conscious memory eventually fades, our unconscious often retains the patterns it has observed.

A child who grows up watching their parents constantly help others may naturally become someone who enjoys helping people. When asked why, they may simply answer,

“I don’t know. That’s just who I am.”

The same process can be even stronger with harmful behaviors.

When an action deeply hurts us, we often remember it with remarkable clarity. The behavior becomes vividly imprinted in our mind, and our unconscious quietly records the pattern.

Early on, I came across the idea that the unconscious mind does not distinguish between positive and negative patterns. Whether we admire or reject a behavior, if it becomes deeply imprinted, it can still influence our identity.

I witnessed my mother’s emotional outbursts and how destructive they could become. Those moments filled me with shame, frustration, and anger. Without realizing it, I slowly began reacting the same way.

I knew I did not want to become like that. But at the time, it was the strongest model my mind had available.

My unconscious had learned the pattern, and I kept repeating it.

From my own experience, I believe this is one reason we sometimes reproduce the very behaviors we condemn.

They are familiar.

They are the patterns the child learned, even against their own wishes.

Revisiting our past through adult eyes can help us identify the source of those behaviors and create new possibilities for change.

We can acknowledge the child’s work and gently complete what they were unable to finish.

But how do we complete it?

If what we inherited is healthy, there may be little to change. We simply become more aware of our roots and the values that shaped us.

But if what we inherited is harmful, I have found something else to be incredibly helpful.

Instead of constantly thinking about who my parents were, I began imagining the person I wanted to become.

That simple shift made an enormous difference.

As long as my attention remained fixed on my parents, I often found myself unconsciously repeating the very traits I wanted to avoid.

But once I began focusing on the person I wanted to become, I was surprised to find myself naturally repeating those new behaviors instead.

The mind repeats the models it knows.

That is why I believe perhaps it is far wiser to keep before us the model we want to become than to keep dwelling on the one we are trying to escape.

🪞 Mirror Question:

What patterns from your childhood do you still recognize in yourself today—and are they helping you become the person you want to be, or quietly keeping you close to the person you were trying not to become?

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“The greatest discovery in life is self-discovery. Until you find yourself, you will always be someone else. Become yourself.”
— Myles Munroe

If this reflection spoke to you, if it resonated with something within you, consider becoming a paid subscriber.

The Clarity Practice invites you into a more personal exploration of your own story. Through guided questions and reflection exercises, it offers an opportunity to better understand the wounds, beliefs, and adaptations that may have emerged in childhood, recognize the stories you have carried for years, and begin looking at them through the eyes of the adult you have become.

Because the longer an unexamined conclusion remains in place, the more opportunities it has to shape our relationships, our decisions, and our sense of self.

Continue the exploration and access this week’s Clarity Practice.

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If this work has helped you better understand yourself, your relationships, or the world around you, and you would still like to support its continuation, you can always leave a tip.

Your presence here already means a great deal.

Thank you for being part of The Mirror Room.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

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Transform awareness into understanding, and understanding into more conscious choices.

I realized that we share different relationships with each of them—and from each relationship, we may inherit something different.

Once again, I ask you to resist the urge to judge.

Simply read these words for what they are: another voice on the path toward healing the inner child.

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December 2025

TO MY FATHER

Father, oh, my father,
My hero, a pillar in my universe.
To me, you have always been more than a father.
A friend, a mentor, someone I could confide in.

I have never cared much for superstars,
They probably couldn’t care less about my troubles.
But you and Mother—you are my greatest stars.
Always there, no matter the moment.

I hear your voice despite the distance.
Your teachings, your advice, your guidance.
You have always known how to find the right words,
Words that lift me even through life’s most unfair moments.

The adult in me is filled with admiration.
But the child still carries accusations.
Today, I write them down to ease the tension
Between the little boy and the man still under construction.

Father, is it my memory or yours that is failing us?
Today, you tell me I have always been brave,
Yet I remember you calling me lazy so many times.
Should I trust my memories or your words?

I remember one moment in particular:
You, me, and my cousins, in the mountains.
From a cliff, you all jumped,
But I was too afraid.
I refused to cross that edge.

I no longer remember exactly what you said.

But I remember the feelings.

The shame.
The anger.
The humiliation.

A wound that stayed with me for a long time.

And yet, I never held it against you.
Perhaps because my heart was grateful to you.

Like Mother, you told that story too often:
How, when she tried to end the pregnancy,
You did everything you could
So I would live to see the present.

But do you know
what a fucking mess
the two of you created inside me?

The child did not need that truth.

You were good parents,
despite your flaws.

I could not hate you.
I could not hate Mother either.

I felt suffocated whenever I was close to you.

Being myself
felt too heavy around you.

Perhaps that explains
why I always preferred living far away.

I love you deeply.

But I breathe better
when I am far from you.

And yet, Father,
you have always been my best friend.

People say you are either a parent
or a friend to your child.
That you cannot be both.

But somehow,
you were both to me.

It is crazy.

Even today,
I still cannot explain how.

Know this, Father:

You remain my first mentor.

You never had the chance
to pursue great studies,
yet you are a great philosopher of life.

Your life is an example to me.
Your resilience, a true source of motivation.
Your compassion, an essential light.
Your humor, a bandage
for my childhood heart.

If life allowed me
to travel back in time,

I would change nothing.

Perhaps
I would tell you
about the child’s complaints.

Perhaps
we would understand each other
a little better.

Father,

Despite everything,
I am grateful.

Grateful to God
for you and Mother
as my parents.

Know that you both
hold a place of honor

in my heart.

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Mirror Question:

When you think about the people who shaped your childhood, what did each of them leave within you—through their love, their mistakes, or even the distance between you?

And today, what are you choosing to carry forward?

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If this poem resonated with you—or reminded you of a part of yourself—I invite you to share your story in the comments. I’d be honored to read it.

And if these words are something you’d rather carry quietly… thank you for being here.

Sometimes, simply knowing we’re not alone is enough.

Your presence in The Mirror Room means more than you know.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.