What do you see when you look in the mirror?

I see a body which is imperfect, but which tells a story: honest eyes and English teeth; my great-grandmother’s prominent nose; fingers that could have been a piano player’s – but aren’t; breasts that have nursed my children; knees that show I prefer sitting on the floor to the sofa; age starting to wreak havoc.

I see a hoarder of books, a greedy consumer of news, a woman who is socially engaged but tired of the lies and compromises of politics, who is warm, honest and generous, but exacting in her standards of herself and others, and capable of darkness.

I see a mother who tends her children lovingly and mourns every bittersweet passing moment, but whose dreams are waiting on the sidelines. A writer who waited too long to take her craft seriously, held back by fear and doubt. A woman who has moderate success and wants more, but is not always prepared to make life sacrifices.

I see the imprint of my loved ones past and present, a woman who wants to be many things, and just one. I see dishonesty cloaked in honesty, someone who is lost sometimes, but trusts and dares, who is unable to look at her reflection in all its truth, but who one day may be able to.

I see someone who is blessed to have been born into this family with these opportunities, basking in this love.