It is strange how a mirror can become a judge. Not a cruel one, perhaps, but a persistent one. Every morning, before the world demands its pieces of me, I stand before the glass and ask the silent, terrifying question: If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?

And when the answer is a heavy, lingering No—stretching across days like an unmade bed—I know. I know that something inside me is quietly dying of routine. We spend our lives dressing up our cages, polishing the bars so they look like silver, until we forget we are locked away.

To change is a violent act against habit. It requires the raw clumsiness of a little child. I am just learning. A baby’s step. Not a stride, not a triumphant leap, but a hesitant, trembling foot placed forward in the dark. ❤

© Beatriz Esmer