Mirror Said Glow, Photo Said Oompa Loompa

The Mirror Said Glow, the Photo Said Oompa Loompa

I saw a photo of myself the other day and thought, Who the hell is that Oompa Loompa?

I laughed. Kind of. And then I zoomed in. Squinted. Tried to convince myself the lighting was off. Maybe it was a bad angle? A weird filter? Had I just eaten too much salt?

But no. That was just me. In all my mid-shift, mid-life, mid-something glory.

And for a moment—longer than I’d like to admit—I spiraled.

Mirror Me vs. Photo Me

There’s this strange dissonance that happens in midlife. You catch yourself in the mirror and think, Okay, not bad. Maybe even a little glowy. But then someone snaps a photo and suddenly, you’re a stranger.

No sacred lighting. No intuitive angle. No emotional buffer. Just your raw, uncurated presence—and all the curated thoughts that come crashing in behind it.

That day, the photo caught me off guard not because of the color or the roundness—though, yes, those too. But because I didn’t recognize myself.

And that rattled something deep.

The Inheritance of Perfection

My mom used to call me her "perfect little child."

It was tender. Meant with love. But also... loaded.

For years, I internalized it as a silent agreement: if I stayed perfect—or at least appeared to—I would stay lovable.

So I curated. I performed. I got very good at showing up polished, even when I felt frayed. And for a long time, it worked. My body moved through life easily. I owned restaurants in Hawaii, constantly on my feet, constantly in motion. I ate what I wanted. I didn’t think about it. My body just... kept up.

But life isn’t static. And neither are we.

Now, things are different. The pace has slowed. The body has softened. And that old inner narrative has gotten louder in the silence:

You used to look better. What happened?

It’s a voice that isn’t really mine. It’s inherited. Conditioned. Cultural. But on some days, it still gets to me.

The Disorienting Blur of Becoming

No one warns you how fast your appearance can shift while your identity tries to keep up. You look in the mirror and think, That’s still me. But then a photo appears and says, Actually, no. We’ve done some updates overnight. Meet Version 7.2.4.

And suddenly, you're grieving a face you used to know. Trying to embrace a new one. Wondering if there's a third option that includes better lighting and a little emotional anesthesia.

But beneath the surface, it’s not just physical. It’s existential.

You're mourning the ease. You're mourning the unthinking way you used to move. You're mourning the version of you that didn't have to try to feel okay in her skin.

The Gap Between Feeling and Seeing

On the inside, I still feel like me. Some days I feel powerful. Soft. Alive. Beautiful, even.

But the picture doesn’t always match.

That’s when the old narrative kicks in: You’ve let yourself go. You should do something. How did this happen?

That’s the moment I know I’m not speaking to myself. I’m speaking to culture. To the diet industry. To 90s beauty standards that branded softness as failure.

Because here’s the truth: Feeling beautiful and looking perfect are not the same thing. And we’ve been tricked into thinking they should be.

Shifting the Frame (Literally and Metaphorically)

After the initial shame spiral, I did something different this time.

I didn’t delete the photo. I didn’t crop my arms or blur my under-eyes. I saved it. To my favorites.

Not because I loved how I looked—but because I loved what was in the photo.

I was laughing. With someone I adore. I was lit up. Present. Fully alive in that moment before the inner critic slid in sideways.

And I thought: What if this is the most beautiful version of me there is?

The version that’s living. Not curating. The version that’s softer, yes. Rounder, maybe. But also more rooted. Less performative. More true.

What I’m Practicing (Not Perfecting)

• Letting the photo be a memory, not a measurement. • Not making myself wrong for changing. • Not assuming the first thought is the truest one. • And yes, sometimes retaking the photo—because angles still matter. Let’s not get too holy.

If You’ve Had an "Oompa Loompa" Moment Too...

You’re not shallow. You’re not broken. You’re human. And you’re living in a culture that worships flawlessness and punishes change.

But you showed up. You were seen. You chose presence, even when it felt wobbly.

That’s courage.

The camera might not always capture the essence of you. But the people who love you? They do. They feel the softness. The spark. The soul.

And maybe—just maybe—you don’t need to look like you used to.

Maybe you’re not supposed to.

Maybe this version has something even more beautiful to say.

And maybe it starts with: I’m still here. Still worthy. Still glowing, even now.