I often hear people speak with certainty about someone—or even an entire culture—despite never having truly known that person or experienced that place for themselves.

It always leaves me with the same question:

How many things do you believe you know about the world that you’ve never actually verified?

Subscribe now

Borrowed Beliefs

Listen to them.
But do not believe them.

Do not let their voices
settle inside your mind.

Make enough noise within yourself,
with your own voice,
to drown out their echoes.

They will kill your spirit of adventure.

They will make you blind,
ignorant,
arrogant,
condescending,
alienated,
contemptuous.

Do not become a fanatic.

Be a disciple
of your own discipline.

Listen to them.
But do not believe them.

“Colombia—a country of drugs,
violence, and death everywhere,”
they told me.

Sadly, I believed them.

But my curiosity saved me.

I was afraid when adventure called,
yet I refused to surrender to their echoes.

Instead, I discovered a beautiful country,
rich in culture,
history,
and breathtaking natural landscapes.

Of course, there is danger,
drugs,
and crime.

But who is without flaws?

What country has no dark corners?

Violence in poor neighborhoods,
poverty,
crime...

I laughed at their ignorance
when I saw on television
what they were saying
about my homeland:

Haiti—an island
surrounded by water,
rivers, and lakes,
yet said to suffer from a lack of it.

They claimed
they would have to give us some,
while our countryside
is filled with fresh springs.

Yes, there are ugly realities where I come from.
But they never show its beauty.
And sadly,
neither do we.

Listen to them.
But do not believe them.

They try to impose their beliefs,
sometimes born
from nothing more
than their own imagination.

How many countries,
how many people,
suffer beneath these loud stories?

Be careful.

Listen to them,
the way you take a deep breath
before diving underwater.

Their words can serve as a warning,
as preparation.

But do not let their fear
keep you from moving forward.

Listen to them.
Verify.

And above all—
do not believe them
until you have learned
how to truly listen.

Subscribe now

Mirror Question:

When was the last time reality surprised you because it was different from what you had been told?

Leave a comment

Personal’s Note:

Everything I write is meant to help us see ourselves a little more clearly.

If these free reflections have resonated with you, becoming a paid subscriber gives you access to guide reflections and the Monthly Guide to Clarity—a journey carefully designed to help you explore these ideas within your own life.

And if you simply enjoy this work, supporting it is a wonderful way to help it continue reaching others.

Thank you for reading.

With Clarity,
Odel A.
The Mirror Room

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 ?

Comment

If you enjoy this, don’t hesitate to support my page 😊👋

Subscribe

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.

Subscribe now

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?

Leave a comment

Please consider supporting The Mirror Room. Comment and share ! Thank you !

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.

Share

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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?

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed reading it, consider supporting my work.

A COFFEE ?

With Clarity,
Odel A.
The Mirror Room

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

Subscribe now

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.

Leave a comment

With clarity,

Odel A.
The Mirror Room

Check July's Monthly Clarity Guide

Share

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.

Subscribe now

…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.

Subscribe now

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?

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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?

Leave a comment

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

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Share

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.

Subscribe now

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?

Leave a comment

More from Thw Letters to My Family:

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.

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.

Subscribe now

🪞 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

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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?

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.

To Mother

Mom,

I thank God for giving me you as mother.

You have always been like a lioness
when it came to protecting us,
feeding us,
clothing us,
and raising us.

You were never handed
a manual on how to be a good mother.

Yet you did everything you could
to give us values,
love,
principles,
and strength.

You knew how to make us feel cherished.

It was never perfect,
I know.

But it was enough
that, despite the child’s complaints,
I never truly knew
how to condemn you.

You spoiled us—

or at least,
you spoiled me.

The little pieces of grilled meat
you would give me
while dinner was still cooking.

The sweet, concentrated peas
you knew I loved.

A glass of milk
because I couldn’t stand oatmeal.

Bulgur wheat—
you knew how much I loved eating it.

The little Sobrino chocolate bars
you rewarded us with
for good grades at school.

The list of those little acts of love
goes on and on.

Even as a child,
you were never a princess to me.

You were the queen.
An empress.

Know this:

I am proud
to be
your son.

Subscribe now

Author’s Reflection

As we move through the healing process, looking beyond the wound and revisiting our story through the eyes of an adult, resentment often becomes a little lighter, a little less blinding.

And perhaps that creates space for us to notice what we had overlooked for so long.

Acts of love that once seemed too ordinary to matter.

Small gestures of care that quietly became part of everyday life.

We often remember the smallest disappointments with remarkable clarity, while forgetting the countless acts of love that surrounded them.

🪞 Mirror Question

When you look beyond your childhood wounds, what quiet acts of love begin to come back into focus?

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.

Dear mother,

Subscribe now

LIKE YOU, BUT NOT LIKE YOU

I want a woman like you, Mother.
Loving, gentle, protective of those she holds dear.
A heart of gold, kind to her children.
A steady foundation for her family.

I want her to be like you.
Independent, full of good faith.
Someone who stays even in times of despair,
Who carries our cross beside me.

I want her to be attentive.
To give love without hesitation.
To be fair, even in adoption.
A strong, kind woman, adorned with passion.

I want her to be like you, and yet, not like you.
Someone who knows how to listen without becoming defensive.
Who chooses understanding before turning away.
Someone who is like you, and even more than you.

I want a balanced love—
One built on dialogue, respect, and passion.
A woman who does not bring our problems before the world,
But works through them in private, without hostility.

I admit it—you remain a model to me, Mother.
Imperfect, like every human being.
Full of strengths and flaws, none of them in vain.
Your life has been a guide, a worthy example.

You are not my past;
You are my foundation.

From you, I am an extension.
Like you, a heart devoted and sincere.
Not like you—better than you,
Something more complete.

Subscribe now

Author’s Note

A parent is more than a parent. They are our first model.

As child, we live under the influence of that model, absorbing its strengths, its fears, its habits, and even its contradictions.

Years later, as adult, we can finally revisit that inheritance and ask:

What do I want to carry forward?

And what ends with me?

Mirror Question:

Which line stayed with you?

Leave a comment

P.S.: Coming this Wednesday:

What if some of our deepest wounds were built around stories that were only half true?

In the next reflection, we explore what the child could not see.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

As you read this poem, I hope you will resist the urge to choose sides. Neither pity me nor condemn my parents. Simply accompany me as I revisit an old wound and help the child within me understand what he could not see at the time.

Subscribe now

Dear Mother,

You are not the most special woman in the world.

But to me, you are, and you always will be.

Your love, your sacrifices, your devotion have shaped my life.
Your corrections and teachings still guide my steps.

In my kingdom, you are the queen.
In my heart, your place is unshakable.
My first love, an irreplaceable pillar.
Your presence flows through me like blood through my veins.

You showed me the way.
Your image became the foundation of my choices.
The love of my dreams feels possible
Because you achieved what once seemed impossible.

And yet, my heart carries complaints.
The child within me brings forth his grievances.

You were never perfect—far from it.
And truthfully, we were never very close.

You were never a bad parent.
I saw your love all the time.
Your worries, your fears for us.
My brothers and I were always protected beneath your watchful eye.

But…

what did you expect the child in me to feel
When I discovered that you wanted a daughter,
Not another son?

You never hid it.
You said it openly.

Often repeating that if you had had a daughter first,
You would never have had another child.

How did you expect the child in me to respond?

My heart never knew what to do with that.
Perhaps that explains the distance between us.

You loved me deeply.
I saw it.
I knew it.

But knowing it was never the issue.

Was your love born from guilt?

My heart choses to believe in your sincerity.

Mother,
I hold nothing against your preferences.
You too have the freedom to be yourself.

What I condemn, perhaps, is your ignorance.
Your parental clumsiness.
Your carelessness.

I do not believe you wanted to hurt me.
I do not believe you meant to cause me pain.

You simply did not know.

And if you did not know,
How can I condemn you?

Yet every time you told that story,
Life lost a little more of its color.

My heart became emptier.
More distant.
More detached.

I was broken.

My confidence was taken from me.

I lived trying not to be a burden.
In silence,
I settled for merely existing.

There were other mistakes.
Perhaps I could find other complaints.
But they feel insignificant in my heart.

Nothing compares to this one.

Know this, Mother:

I have grown.

Today, the adult can see
What the child could never understand.

I am healing.
I am finding my way back to myself.

Oh Mother,
My love for you is undeniable,
Deep,
Sincere,
Beyond comparison.

I never condemned you then,
And I never will.

The child simply needed to speak.
To tell his truth.

To finally let go.

To finally

be

free.

December 2025

Subscribe now

🪞 Mirror Question

What is a wound from your childhood that feels different when you look at it through the eyes of the adult you have become?

Leave a comment

Author’s Note

There are words we do not write because we have something to teach, but because we need to breathe.

Like a deep breath after holding our head underwater for too long, some words are not lessons or wisdom. They are simply a form of release. A form of clarity.

I grew up in a particular family. I cannot complain about a lack of love. I was loved, and I still am. Yet I carried wounds that were born within that same family for many years.

After reading Stillness Is the Key, Ryan Holiday’s invitation to heal the child within stayed with me. These letters were born from that invitation.

I don’t think I could sit in front of my parents and say these words out loud. And even if I spoke them with all the tenderness in the world, I am not sure they would understand them as I intend them.

They would understand the meaning of the words. What I fear they might not understand is the intention behind them. A misunderstanding could create the very distance I hope to heal.

So I write.

Writing gives me a place where I can sit with each member of my family and have the conversations I never learned how to have. It helps me clarify, reassure the child within me, and finally tell him:

“You have been heard, my friend. We can move forward now.”

These letters are not accusations. They were not born from hatred. From anger, perhaps.

But never from hatred.

I love my family deeply. And I know they love me too.

What follows is not an attempt to judge them. It is simply part of my journey toward understanding, healing, and peace.

On Wednesday, I will share the first reflection accompanying this poem. Together, we will explore how childhood wounds can exist even in the presence of love, and how looking at them through the eyes of an adult can sometimes bring a little more clarity to the child we once were.

Subscribe now

If this post brought you something meaningful, feel free to leave a like, share your thoughts, or pass it along to someone who may need it.

If you would like to support this work, you can leave a tip or become a paid subscriber.

Paid members receive additional resources created to help them better understand themselves, question their assumptions, and move through life with greater clarity and intention.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Support the Room

Refer a friend

Sometimes, that is all it takes for us to create an entire story about someone’s life.

But how often are those stories true?

Subscribe now

I Know Nothing

Oh, how beautiful she is.

She looks like a flower

Lost in this corrupted world.

.

Like the sun,

Her soul seems to shine

With a thousand invisible rays.

.

And I, poor mortal,

Can only imagine

Fragments of her life.

.

I told myself her childhood

Must have been a cradle of serenity —

adorned with happiness,

The kind children inherit

Without ever doubting.

.

Her adolescence,

Without loneliness.

Without wounds.

Surrounded,

protected,

Cherished by loving parents.

.

For what parent would not love

Such an angel?

What king would not protect

a princess so radiant?

.

Yes…

I imagined

she does not merely wear

Beauty upon her face,

But breathes it.

.

That fortune smiles at her each day.

That love bows before her.

.

And I…

I, poor mortal,

Dare not approach.

Afraid of being consumed

By her light.

.

For I believe her

Untouched.

Pristine.

Immaculate.

…

And yet,

I know nothing.

Subscribe now

Author’s Note

I wrote this poem as a tribute to after becoming aware of parts of her childhood and her relationship with her father in one of her poems shared many months ago. Here’s the link of the post in question:

imi

If It Helps Father

This one is for the little girl who ran home from school, breathless with wanting to learn the piano, who began waking an hour before dawn to practice alone…

Read more

6 months ago · 134 likes · 151 comments · imi

And I lost the poem shortly after writing it. To be honest, I never really intended to share it.

But as I continued reading the poems and stories of so many people in this community, I realized how often projection shapes the way we see one another. We see a person and unconsciously begin filling in the blanks.

Starting this Sunday, I will be sharing a series of poems that are more personal and vulnerable than usual. They are unsent letters written to members of my family. In a way, it feels like this might be the right time to share them.

The names mentioned bellow are people whose stories gave me the courage to share pieces of my own past.

So , , , , , and many others... your writing gave me the courage to start this new journey.

Thank you.

Subscribe now

If this post brought you something meaningful, feel free to leave a like, share your thoughts, or pass it along to someone who may need it.

If you would like to support this work, you can leave a tip or become a paid subscriber.

Paid members receive additional resources created to help them better understand themselves, question their assumptions, and move through life with greater clarity and intention.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Support the Room

Refer a friend

After all, life is always moving. The universe is always changing. Nothing remains exactly as it was.

I have often been told not to doubt myself. Yet I have also been told not to let myself be trapped by the ego.

The ego affirms. It defends. It insists.

But doubt is different, even though it is often seen as a weakness.

So I began to wonder:

What if doubt is not always something to overcome? What if it is one of the mechanisms that allows us to keep evolving, to keep learning, both as individuals and as a species?

Subscribe now

MAYBE

Maybe,
and I do mean maybe—

Maybe life is beautiful,
And I, like you, am exceptional.

Or maybe none of it is real,
and I am nothing more than a superficial being.

Maybe I was born to shine,
to influence reality,
to explore, to revolutionize.

Or maybe I simply exist
to endure hardship,
to make time itself feel heavier.

Maybe I am the one who will save my family,
free them from this inherited cage,
from poverty,
from obscurity.

Or maybe I am the one who will condemn them,
make their burdens heavier,
bringing them nothing but trouble.

Maybe I am free,
free to lose myself in living,
to follow my own will
and create my own reality.

Or maybe I am losing my mind,
a prisoner of my own illusion,
the jailer of my own prison.

Some say I am good,
others say I am bad.
Maybe they are right.
Maybe they are wrong.
Who knows?

Maybe I truly care about you,
truly worry for you,
pray for your victories,
act with a sincere heart.

Or maybe it is only another mask,
and I am nothing more than a deceiver,
an old fox,
a traitor,
just another smooth talker.

Maybe I am crazy,
but then, how could one not be
in a world gone mad?
The mad often laugh at everything, don’t they?
No matter the situation.

Or maybe I am the most lucid of them all.
Or perhaps I am simply dreaming while awake.

Maybe I am a virtuous man,
respectful, filled with good qualities:
loyalty, generosity, faithfulness,
sincerity, sensitivity, and kindness.

Or maybe I am a vile creature,
cold, worthless, without shame,
inhabited by stupidity, cruelty,
pride, arrogance, and greed.

Maybe life has a meaning,
that everyone has a role to play,
maybe everything is already written.
Then perhaps struggling is pointless.

Or maybe existence
is nothing more than a blank page,
and it is up to each of us
to embrace our own destiny,
to write our role into history.

Maybe I carry love within me,
bringing joy, peace, serenity,
security, happiness, stability.

Or maybe I belong more to lovelessness—
to indifference, hatred, chaos,
detachment, sorrow,
and solitude.

Maybe I carry truths,
maybe my words resonate deeply,
bringing value and meaning.
Maybe I speak and write from the heart.

Or maybe I speak only nonsense,
empty words, faded thoughts, absurdities.
Maybe I spread nothing but falsehoods,
writing without foundation,
without life in…

Maybe I am the ideal man,
the ideal friend.
Or maybe I am a burden,
an endless cycle.

Maybe I am a king,
or merely an outlaw.
A man of faith,
or a man without faith.

Maybe I am blessed.
Maybe I am cursed.

Maybe.

Did this text have a purpose?
Maybe it had an objective.
Maybe…
or maybe not.

What do you think, you?
Don’t tell me.
I may not want to know.

Maybe all of this means something.
Maybe it has an ending.
Maybe it does not.

But damn it—what do I really know?

Mirror Question:

What is one thing you are absolutely certain about yourself—and what would happen if you replaced that certainty with "maybe"?

Subscribe now

If The Mirror Room brought you something meaningful, feel free to leave a like, share your thoughts, or share it to someone who may need it.

Share

The Mirror Room was built as a place for reflection, curiosity, and honest exploration.

For those who wish to go further, The Evening Mirror and the Monthly Guides to Clarity explore these ideas in greater depth. They offer frameworks, guided questions, and practical tools designed to help uncover the tensions, patterns, and assumptions that quietly shape our lives.

This space is built slowly — with time, stillness, and presence.

If this work has helped you better understand yourself, your relationships, or the world around you, you can support its continuation by becoming a paid subscriber or leaving a tip.

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Leave a tip

We often see love as a burning fire of passion, happiness, and excitement in the beginning. But once we finally “have” it, we slowly start feeling the intensity fade away little by little.

For a long time, I believed that was simply normal.

But after many years and countless hours of reflection, I began asking myself:

What if the things we keep treating as destinations… were always meant to be lived as journeys instead?

Subscribe now

I Am the Path

You look for me as if I were a destination,
when I’m really a sensation.
The warmth of a hand,
the spark of a shiver,
the scent of a smile,
the echo of passion.

The softness of someone’s presence,
humble gestures with no extravagance,
the quiet touch of an atmosphere,
a living cradle where trust can grow.

In conflict, in anger,
in indifference, in fleeting wounds.
In the cold, in hardship,
I remain a rock—
your faithful point of return.

No hypocrisy, no empty show,
far from pride and loud performances.
No glitter, no disguise—
just connection,
real attention woven into everyday life.

Do not reduce me, I beg you, to an ending.
To simple visions or some imagined prize.
Oh, what sorrow—what a certain grief…

For I am the breath of life itself.

I am
the path.

Mirror Question:

How many beautiful things lose their meaning the moment we believe we have finally “arrived”?

Leave a comment

If this poem brought you something meaningful, feel free to leave a like, share your thoughts, or pass it along to someone who may need these words today.

Share

Free subscribers receive each new reflection and every poem added to the Vault — quiet spaces to pause, reflect, and reconnect with what often goes unnoticed within us.

For those who wish to go further, The Evening Mirror offers deeper explorations into the emotional and psychological structures behind our experiences, alongside reflection practices and the Monthly Guide to Clarity.

This space is built slowly — with time, honesty, and presence.

And if these words helped you see yourself a little more clearly, you can also support this work by leaving a tip or upgrading to support the journey.

Leave a tip

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

We are all human.

The poor sometimes believe the rich could never understand their struggles, and the rich often think the same in return.

The unattractive may believe that beauty comes without loneliness, without difficulty in connecting with others. And the beautiful may believe that those considered unattractive never have to question whether affection is genuine.

I have always tried to look at both sides of things. We all carry our differences.

And yet, the real question in my mind has always been:

Can we accept how different we are… without forgetting what still makes us human?

Subscribe now

Different, Yet Humans

It’s true that
our eyes are not drawn toward the same horizons.
And still,
each of us keeps moving forward,
guided by an invisible vision.

✨

Though
we are told we share the same rights.
Nevertheless,
that does not change the fact
that we are not all born equal.

Some enter the world healthy,
others inherit pain
or disability from the very beginning.

Some are born with strength,
others with battles already carved into their flesh.

Some open their eyes in abundance,
others in survival.

✨

It’s true that
we do not face the same threats.
And yet,
we are all threatened by something.

Some enter life
threatened by hunger or sickness,
others by silence,
loneliness,
or a heart slowly losing its light.

✨

No doubt
we do not fight the same wars.
And yet,
everyone is fighting a battle
others cannot always see.

Some fight the world.
Others fight their own minds.

✨

It’s true that

we have not suffered the same wounds.
We do not all know the same pain.
Our blood is not spilled for the same reasons.

Nevertheless,
we all carry scars…
some perhaps still open.

✨

It’s true that
we do not share the same flaws,
nor the same vices.
And our demons do not wear the same faces.

Still,
we all carry a darker side within us.

✨

We are all both sides of the coin:
ignorant and wise,
humble and arrogant,
kind and contemptuous,
as capable of good as of harm…

We live through the eyes of others.
And yet,
we are kings within our own worlds,
and sometimes prisoners
of what others make of us in theirs.

✨

It is true that
our lives do not carry the same energy.
We do not all draw our strength
from the same wells.
And yet,
no source flows forever.

✨

Of course our hearts
do not beat to the same rhythm.
We do not move through
the same emotions.
And still,
no life truly escapes friction.

And despite all this…
we all know kindness.
We all give love,
though not always gently,
not always wisely.

For even the driest lands
can still welcome
rebellious flowers,
wild flowers.

✨

It’s true that
our lives do not hold
the same value in the eyes of the world.
And yet,
every life is precious.
Every life carries its own worth.

Useless here,
indispensable somewhere else.

✨

It’s true that we walk upon the same earth.
We all navigate the troubled waters of life.
And yet…

we do not follow the same paths.
We are not moving in the same direction.
For we do not share the same destiny…
even if the same ending awaits us all.

Mirror Question:

Have you ever looked at someone’s life and assumed they had it easier…
without seeing the battle they were quietly carrying?

Leave a comment

Author’s Note

These lines came to me during my night shifts at work. It was a reflection that had been lingering in my mind for a long time already. But being in an environment where I could observe different people, with different strengths and different weaknesses, I could not help but quietly whisper these simple words to myself.

There is something I was told a long time ago: no struggle is ever truly small. Each person faces life according to their own measure. What may seem simple to me could feel like hell for someone else, and the opposite can be true as well.

For at the end of the day, we are all human. We may carry different problems and different joys, but they are still problems and joys nonetheless, often leaving behind similar emotions in different forms.

A special thank you to and for encouraging me to finish this piece as well.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Subscribe to remain in the room.

Free subscribers receive each new reflection and every poem added to the Vault — invitations to pause, observe, and see a little more clearly.

For those who wish to go further, The Evening Mirror goes further: deeper structural explorations, practical tools, reflection practices, and the Monthly Guide to Clarity — spaces designed to move beyond recognition and toward deeper understanding.

This space is built slowly — with time, stillness, and presence.

If these words have helped you understand yourself a little more clearly, you can also choose to support this work by upgrading or leaving a tip.

Leave a tip

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Jealousy has always been one of my deepest observations. Maybe because it is also a part of me. And perhaps because, very early on, I developed the habit of questioning the things society quickly condemns as “bad.”

Over the years, through self-exploration and a little more clarity, I came to realize something:

One can carry an immense inner jealousy while still refusing to turn the other person into a possession.

Subscribe now

The Confession of a “Non-Jealous” Man

One day, you told me, in a breath soft and light,
Like the fading echo of a quiet whisper:
— “What I love about you, what feels so gentle,
Is that you are not, my love, a jealous man.”

I smiled when you said it, I must confess,
Though distance kept my face beyond your reach;
You could not read the storm behind my calm,
And yet, inside, I laughed like a madman.
Ah, what a cruel misfortune—
You could not see my face.

Do you remember the promises I made?
Oh, how deeply my actions contradicted them.
I, the hidden jealous man, the fool risking everything,
Winning the pitiful prize of the “non-jealous” lover.

This love is total—it asks everything of me,
And for the brightness of your days, I envy all things.
But do not mistake me; I hold no ambition
To accuse you or place blame upon your heart.

I am jealous even of the gentle breeze
That comes to caress your exquisite skin,
While far away from you, I remain motionless,
Daring not to place my hands upon your velvet touch.

I am jealous of the radiant sun
That illuminates your tender face,
Bathing your features in its crimson glow,
Stealing what I wish were mine alone.

I am jealous, you see, even of strangers—
Crowds who unknowingly receive their blessing,
Letting their eyes rest upon you without thought,
While far from you, I quietly suffer that pain.

I am jealous of the air itself, of every breath that embraces you.
It wraps around you endlessly, without growing tired,
Mocking my pride, my helpless longing,
For it is within my arms alone that you belong.

A foolish jealousy lives within me,
Yet it will never become your chain;
To love me has always been your choice alone,
And in that sacred freedom, I place my faith.

Your life is yours, as your freedom is yours.
Never will my heart seek to tame you;
But my love only keeps its anchor
If your heart still chooses me as its shore.

Subscribe now

Mirror Question:

Can love remain free when the fear of losing quietly begins to claim everything?

Leave a comment

Author’s Note

I suppose I can be seen as a mad romantic.
Maybe, deep down, I truly am.

, I finally shared this poem with the public. I still remember how gently you laughed at me when you first read it. I hope others will have the same reaction.

I don’t write many love poems, especially not in this style. When it comes to love poetry, and , even , are masters of the craft… and of course, there are many others as well.

I noticed something funny: every time I publish a love poem, I lose a few subscribers. So today, nobody is allowed to leave the boat. Stay with me a little longer,
and laugh at me instead. (just joking…)

But truly, I hope you enjoyed reading this poem as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Subscribe to stay in the room.

Free subscribers receive each new reflection.

Paid members support the work and access deeper readings. You can also leave a tip to support the journey.

This work asks for time and presence. Your support keeps it alive…with more freedom.

Leave a tip

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Share

(Poetry prompt)

This poem explores the darker side of hope:
the way the desire to win, the fear of losing, and the illusion of the “easy path” can sometimes pull us away from reality.

After a personal misadventure, I found myself wondering:

What if some forms of hope distance us from reality
while giving us the feeling that we are moving forward?

Subscribe now

The Dark Side of Hope

Sweet feeling, passion, devotion.
Heartbeats rushing, a source of motivation.
Against my reason, you always seem right.
Gentle, seductive—oh sweet poison.

You encourage me, filling me with emotion.
In the face of fear, you make your intrusion.
You silence my doubts without permission.
My heart trembles, carried by your sensation.

Oh old fox, deceiver on a mission.
A wolf’s heart beneath the skin of a lamb.
Beautiful promises, beautiful expectations—
leading me toward my own destruction.

If fear blinds our vision,
you push us toward reckless decisions.
You and fear alike, kings of disappointment—
throwing logic and reason into prison.

Dreams and riches, paths toward ruin.
Manipulations, affection without foundation.
Oh hope, cradle of illusions…
A great elevation—only for a cleaner execution.

You encourage me only to leave me abandoned.
You laugh at the table of my condemnation.
Feeding on my innocent intentions—
do you still believe in my healing?

But I rise again, far from your domination.
Your shadow fades outside my home.
I reclaim my heart, my path, my direction—
and your fall begins… the moment I find liberation.

Subscribe now

La Face Sombre de l’Espoir

Doux sentiment, passion, dévotion.
Des palpitations, source de motivation.
De ma raison, tu as raison.
Caressant, séduisant, ô doux poison.

Tu m’encourages, tu m’emplis d’émotion.
Face à ma peur, tu fais ton intrusion.
Tu chasses mes doutes, sans permission.
Mon cœur sursaute, porté par tes frissons.

Ô vieux renard, trompeur en mission.
Cœur de loup sous la peau d’un mouton.
Belles promesses, belles expectations —
Tu m’entraînes vers ma propre destruction.

Si la peur nous bloque la vision,
Toi, tu pousses toujours à la précipitation.
Toi comme lui, des rois de la déception —
La logique, la raison… vous jetez en prison.

Rêves et richesses, conduits à la perdition.
Manipulations, affections sans fondation.
Ô espoir, berceau d’illusions…
Grande élévation — pour mieux la décapitation.

Tu m’encourages pour mieux me laisser dans l’abandon.
Tu ricanes à la table de ma condamnation.
Profiteur de mes innocentes intentions,
Crois-tu encore à ma guérison ?

Je me relève, loin de ta domination.
Ton ombre s’éteint, hors de ma maison.
Je reprends mon cœur, ma route, ma direction —
Et ta chute commence… au moment de ma libération.

Subscribe now

Mirror question:

Have you ever held onto a hope so tightly that it slowly pulled you away from reality?

Leave a comment

Author’s Note

Here’s the funny story.

This poem was born from a basketball bet.

I had the right players, the right picks, and logic on my side. And yet… fear convinced me to abandon them for a “safer” choice. A decision driven by the hope of winning without too much difficulty.

In the end, I lost.
And the very players I had abandoned ended up winning.

I was so angry. I should have won. In that moment, I wanted to hit something, so I poured all that frustration into the hope of winning I had been holding onto.

This is a poem about that moment when you realize that hope is not always a light sometimes, it can also be poison.

, special tag.

Subscribe to stay in the room.

Free subscribers receive each new reflection.

Paid members support the work and access deeper readings. You can also leave a tip to support the journey.

This work asks for time and presence. Your support keeps it alive…with more freedom.

Leave a tip

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Share

Subscribe now

I am like water,

Calm at the surface, deep below,
Without a fixed form, gentle as a lamb,
A divine essence, an enduring grace.

I am like water,
At times clouded, at times clear,
Forever flowing like a stream,
Living fully, even the fleeting.

I, the water; the world, the ships,
Thousands faces, thousands beliefs.
I hold my peace through all of it,
Open, yet clear in my understanding.

My life, a mirror of water,
My words, drops that echo,
At times to blur, at times to reveal,
In lightness, in intensity.

I am like water,
Gentle at rest,
Yet fierce as a raging storm
When my boundaries are crossed.

I am like water,
A source of life or ruin.
Flowing through endless channels,
My essence never tamed.

Like water, I too can be contained,
So long as pathways let me flow—
As long as space remains within
For me to move and to express.

Subscribe now

, I added the french version as promised, brother.

Je suis comme l’eau

Je suis comme l’eau,
Surface calme, grande profondeur.
Sans forme fixe, humble comme l’agneau,
Essence divine, éternel honneur.

Je suis comme l’eau,
Souvent trouble, parfois clair,
Toujours en mouvement, tel un ruisseau,
Je vis pleinement, même l’éphémère.

Moi, l’eau ; le monde, les vaisseaux,
Mille visages, mille convictions.
Je garde ma paix à tous niveaux,
Tolérant, lucide en compréhension.

Ma vie, un miroir d’eau,
Mes mots, gouttes aux échos :
Parfois salir, parfois éclairer,
Dans la légèreté, dans l’intensité.

Je suis comme l’eau,
Inoffensif au repos,
Mais féroce, comme une tempête déchaînée,
Quand mes limites sont violées.

Je suis comme l’eau,
Source de vie ou calamité.
Je parcours tant de canaux,
Mon essence, jamais domptée.

Je peux, tout comme l’eau,
Me laisser barricader,
Si des passages pour mes flots
Me laissent libre de m’exprimer.

Subscribe now

Reflection:

It is important to know what we want in life. It is normal to have expectations. But it is even more important to know who we are.

Very often, we condition our peace and our happiness. We think that in order to finally enjoy life, we need to have this or that: money, a beautiful family, a nice house, living with our parents, being able to entertain ourselves...

What happens when some or none of these conditions are met? Should we then accept a life of unhappiness?

This is the difference between ice and water.

Ice takes on a fixed shape, and it struggles to adapt. Some forms are simply incompatible with it. With an ice mindset, peace becomes difficult, even impossible. If someone builds their happiness on money, would they still be happy without it?

Water is different. Water does not have a fixed shape, but it has its own nature. No matter the form, it keeps its essence.

If you pour regular water into an empty vodka bottle, does it become vodka by default?

And yet, the water will perfectly take the shape of the bottle while still remaining water.

“I am like water” is a poem about our ability to adapt to any situation without losing who we are. I always come back to this idea: “Life is about living.”

No matter the situation I find myself in, I always find a way to live, to smile, and to enjoy myself.

Mirror question:

What would it look like to adapt… without losing yourself?

Leave a comment

Subscribe to stay in the room.

Free subscribers receive each new reflection.

Paid members support the work and access deeper readings.

You can also leave a tip to support the journey.

This work asks for time and presence.

Your support keeps it alive…with more freedom.

Leave a tip

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.

Share

Maybe it’s naïve.
I’ve been called that before.

And still…
there’s a part of me that holds on to the idea
that something softer could exist between us—
something closer to harmony.

Subscribe now

WHAT IF…

What if we could get along,
truly.
What if we could understand each other,
truly.

…What if we could fully see each other,
as if, all of a sudden,
there were no more secrets between us?

What if,
instead of staying
at opposite ends of the bridge,
we moved closer,
trying to meet in the middle?

What if you could see my pain—
would you understand me better?
And if I could see yours,
would I be more thoughtful?

What if we could listen—
really listen, without judging.
Listen to our emotions,
hear our intentions clearly…

What if I showed you my chaos,
would you ease some of my burdens?
And if I could see your mess,
would I dare to be more present, more grounded?

What if we lifted each other up,
celebrated each other’s victories,
patiently waiting our turn—
would there be more love between us?

What if we gave ourselves a chance—
would there be acceptance,
real consistency?
Would distrust fade,
or would trust break?

What if we opened our hearts,
set aside caution and fear,
and truly let ourselves be seen—
completely—
could we be happy,
like carefree children?

What if we allowed ourselves
to exist differently,
to live differently,
to see differently,
to feel differently—
could we coexist in peace,
within the same shared space?

What if we dared to look at the cracks,
the reasons behind our wounds,
to understand the wear and tear
before judging,
before condemning—
could we truly forgive?

What if we loved each other wildly,
shared everything—
would our lives be more beautiful,
richer, exceptional?
Would we recognize the blessing,
or fall into dissatisfaction?

What if we truly valued each other,
brought real presence
into both the light and heavy moments—
would life feel better?

What if we got along,
truly—if we listened,
if we saw each other,
if we understood,
if we forgave,
if we loved,
if we endured one another—

WOULD LIFE BE BETTER?

Leave a comment

Subscribe to stay in the room.

Free subscribers receive each new reflection.

Paid members support the work and access deeper readings.

You can also leave a tip to support the journey.

This work asks for time and presence.
Your support keeps it alive…with more freedom.

Leave a tip

With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.