The Women in My Reflection

I stood in front of the mirror this morning, looking at the woman staring back at me.

A wife. A mother. A nurse. A leader. A woman who has made mistakes, overcome obstacles, fought battles, and somehow managed to keep moving forward.

For a moment, I wondered how many women I was actually looking at.

Because the longer I looked, the more I realized I wasn't seeing just myself.

I was seeing pieces of the women who raised me, loved me, challenged me, protected me, and stood beside me through different seasons of my life.

Women who may never fully understand how much of themselves they left in me.

And suddenly, the reflection in the mirror became so much more than my own.

I saw my mom.

I recognized her in the stubborn set of my jaw. In the way I straighten my shoulders when life gets difficult. In that little fire inside me that refuses to quit, even when quitting would be so much easier.

My mom gave me grit.

She taught me to love fiercely, protect what matters, and keep pushing forward when the world gives me every reason to stop.

She also gave me a little bit of that "forgive, but don't forget" mentality.

And maybe a little bit of the tendency to hold on to things longer than I should.

But as I've grown older, I've started to recognize something else about my mother.

So much of what I once saw as her being overly protective was really just a woman doing everything in her power to keep her daughter safe.

She couldn't protect me from every disappointment, every heartbreak, or every wrong decision.

But that never stopped her from trying.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see that same fierce protection in myself. The instinct to stand between the people I love and anything that might hurt them.

I see her drive. Her determination. Her ability to keep going.

And I see the parts of her that I'm still learning how to balance.

As I continued looking, I noticed a smirk forming.

And there she was.

My Nana T.

Oh, this woman.

I see her in my humor. In the moments when I probably should keep my mouth shut but find myself saying exactly what I'm thinking anyway.

I see her when I stand firm in something I believe in, even when I'm standing alone.

Nana T taught me that being a woman was never a limitation. Being a woman was a power all its own.

She believes women are strong. Women are smart. Women are capable of building lives they can be proud of without needing a man to define their worth.

She taught me that my voice mattered.

That I didn't have to shrink myself to make someone else comfortable.

That if I had something worth saying, I ought to say it.

I can hear her in every moment when I find myself questioning whether I should speak up.

Somewhere along the way, her confidence became part of my own.

Her humor became my humor.

Her independence became something I carried into every room I entered.

And the woman in the mirror smiled a little bigger.

At that moment, I saw Nana Cathy.

Nana Cathy was compassion.

She was forgiveness.

She was empathy in its purest form.

She was a healthcare provider, a nurturer, and the kind of woman who could see someone struggling and instinctively move toward them instead of away.

No matter how many times I fell, failed, or found myself in a situation I didn't know how to get out of, she was there.

Not standing over me, reminding me how I got there.

But reaching out, helping me back up, and figuring out what we needed to do next.

She taught me that mistakes didn't have to define a person.

That forgiveness wasn't weakness.

That caring for someone meant showing up, even when showing up was difficult.

I wonder sometimes how much of my nursing career was shaped by watching her love people.

How much of my leadership comes from her ability to see the person behind the problem.

Because when I look at the leader I've become, I recognize her in the moments when I choose compassion over criticism.

When I sit beside someone who is struggling instead of simply telling them to do better.

When I remind someone that one bad day, one mistake, or one failure doesn't erase their worth.

That's her.

Still teaching me, even now.

Looking into my eyes, I saw hope.

I saw my little sister.

This one is different.

Because while so many of these women shaped who I was becoming through the things they taught me, my sister shaped me simply by being someone I wanted to make proud.

No matter where I went, what I did, what goals I chased, or how many times I had to change direction, she was always somewhere in the back of my mind.

I wanted her to look at me and say, "That's my big sister."

Not because I had a fancy title.

Not because I had everything figured out.

But because she could see what I had overcome.

Because she could look at my life and know that hard things don't have to stop you.

That you can fall apart and put yourself back together.

That you can take a different path and still arrive somewhere beautiful.

Today, she is my best friend in the whole world.

I don't see her every day.

I don't talk to her every day.

But that girl makes my heart whole.

And when I look in the mirror, I see the big sister who is still trying to be someone worth looking up to.

Not perfect.

Just someone who keeps showing up, keeps growing, and keeps trying to make her proud.

I stepped back, and there I was again.

Just me.

Except now, I couldn't unsee them.

My mother's grit.

Nana T's voice.

Nana Cathy's compassion.

My sister's quiet place in the center of my why.

All of these women, woven into the person standing in front of me.

I started thinking about how often we talk about successful women as though they simply arrived.

We celebrate their accomplishments.

Their titles.

Their resilience.

Their ability to lead.

But we don't always talk about the women who helped build the foundation beneath all of it.

The mothers who protected them.

The grandmothers who believed in them.

The sisters who gave them a reason to keep going.

We don't always recognize that leadership begins long before someone is given a title.

Sometimes it begins in a kitchen with a mother who refuses to give up.

Sometimes it begins with a grandmother reminding a little girl that she has a voice.

Sometimes it begins with someone reaching down to help you stand after you've fallen.

And sometimes it begins with a little sister watching everything you do, without you even realizing how much her opinion matters.

Looking at my reflection, I found myself wondering which of these women I had become most like.

Was I my mom’s grit?

Nana T's confidence?

Nana Cathy's compassion?

Was it the determination to become someone my little sister could be proud of?

What makes me the woman I am today isn't one extraordinary influence.

It's all of them.

Every lesson. Every laugh. Every moment of protection. Every act of forgiveness. Every friendship. Every reason to keep going.

They didn't each create a different version of me.

Together, they helped create the woman standing in the mirror.

I was loved by strong women.

I was challenged by strong women.

I was protected, encouraged, forgiven, defended, and believed in by strong women.

Their lessons became my instincts.

Their voices became part of mine.

Their love became the way I love other people.

Perhaps that's what makes me a great leader.

Not that I learned to stand on my own, but that I carry the strength of every woman who helped me get here.

I took one last look in the mirror. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel something we, as women, don't always give ourselves permission to feel.

Pride.

Not because I've done everything right. Not because I've accomplished everything I set out to do.

But because I genuinely like the woman I've become.

I'm proud of me.

And I'm proud of the women who helped shape me.

When I look in the mirror today, I don't just see the woman I am. I see every woman who helped me get here.

And I couldn't be prouder of what we've become.