🪞 Episode 11: My Mirror Self is Hotter and Meaner and Totally Took Over My Life for a Weekend




 It started, as these things often do, with Carl announcing a new emotional hygiene regimen. He called it “Reflections & Projections”—equal parts self-love seminar and mystical performance art. In our shared apartment-slash-sentient-art-installation, these announcements are met with a healthy mix of dread, curiosity, and an immediate need to rearrange my chakras.

“Time to face your inner hottie,” Carl said, adjusting the monocle that had somehow acquired rhinestones overnight.

I was instructed to sit cross-legged in front of my full-length mirror while burning a candle scented like unresolved childhood ambition. Carl handed me a deck of affirmation cards that looked suspiciously like expired coupons and began to chant in what I could only assume was Latin filtered through a sassy mood. The mirror began to shimmer—not literally, but emotionally—and I suddenly felt like I was watching a trailer for the person I could’ve been if I had just stuck with ballet and therapy.

Then it happened. The mirror-self blinked first.

She stepped out from the glass like it was a revolving door into my psyche. She was everything I was, but filtered through a French cinema lens. Tousled hair, excellent posture, impossibly high heels, and the aura of someone who knows how to pair wine with heartbreak. She looked me up and down, exhaled a sigh that dripped with disappointment, and said, “Ma chérie… non.”

Within the hour, she’d replaced all my black leggings with structured trousers and started throwing out my comfort snacks. “You are emotionally snacking on abandonment. Stop it,” she hissed, wielding a celery stick like a sword.

At first, I tried to assert dominance. “You’re literally me,” I said. “I could just send you back.”

But she was already in the kitchen, FaceTiming an agency rep. “I have a look that screams ‘deeply wounded, yet editorial,’” she said, striking a pose next to Carl, who had already started serving as her unofficial manager. “We’re exploring fragrance deals next.”

Friday night, Mirror-Me threw a self-love rave in our living room. She invited every version of me I’d ever suppressed: The overachiever with burnout eyeliner, the teenage rebel who used eyeliner as war paint, the kid who just wanted to be weird without being weird about it. They danced in perfect unison to a DJ who played only the music I’d pretended not to like in public. Taylor Swift. Enya. Gregorian remixes of ‘90s hip-hop.

At one point, I found myself in the kitchen eating hummus straight from the container, talking to Carl.

“She flosses in public,” I whispered. “She complimented my ex and now he’s reconsidering everything.”

Carl nodded solemnly. “Healthy envy is still healthy. Besides, your mirror self is just the amplified frequency of your suppressed fabulousness.”

“She wears leather in summer.”

“Power move,” Carl replied. “Let it inspire your shadow work.”

By Sunday, Mirror-Me had opened a Depop shop, published three eBooks about confidence, and somehow acquired a weekend modeling contract for a perfume called “Ambivalence.” She’d taken my therapist's slot and upgraded my vision board to something that included international travel, mirrored furniture, and a romantic affair with mystery.

The spiraling wasn’t immediate. It was more of a polite collapse. The kind that involves you deleting social media while simultaneously Googling “how to French exit from your own life.”

But then something strange happened. Mirror-Me sat beside me in my room late Sunday night. No music. No critiques. Just quiet. She handed me a glass of water with a lime wedge and said, “You made me. So maybe stop being afraid of me.”

It hit me: I wasn’t mad she was better. I was mad I’d buried the version of me who dared to be that bold in the first place. The leather, the confidence, the willingness to throw a rave with her own subconscious—none of it was foreign. It was just long-lost.

When Monday rolled around, she stepped back into the mirror with a wink, leaving behind a very well-organized planner and a playlist titled “Unapologetic Descent Into Main Character Energy.” Carl gave me a high five and handed me back my yoga pants with a note: Reintegration complete. You’re welcome.

In the end, I didn’t become Mirror-Me. But I started dressing like she might be watching.

Teaser for Next Week:

📱Episode 12: My Phone Got Possessed by a Spirit Who Thinks It’s My Mom

It begins with affirmations at 3 a.m. and push notifications reminding me to sit up straight. Then come the alerts correcting my tone in texts and filtering my dating app convos with ghostly judgment. Carl calls it “maternal software integration.” I call it possession by digital guilt. The kicker? The spirit has started tagging itself in my selfies and offering unsolicited advice on my love life. Boundary issues? There’s an app for that.

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