Content note: the following poem discusses disordered eating.

5 hours a day,

5 days a week,

I stand in front of a mirror.

Studio lights buzzing,

cold marley under my bare feet,

glass waiting

like a judge who never blinks.

I lift my arms,

turn, stretch, reach,

but the reflection always follows, asking

questions I never wanted to answer. Does

my stomach fold when I bend? Are my

thighs too soft,

my arms too still,

my legs too bowed?

I’m supposed to watch my technique,

but all I see is my body.

All I hear is that voice

I learned in seventh grade,

the one that counted calories like sins.

Eight hundred a day.

Eight hundred ways to feel small.

I called it control,

but really, it was punishment.

My friend back then,

she stopped eating altogether.

Her ribs started spelling out secrets

etched into her skin

that none of us knew how to read.

We said “she’s just being healthy.”

We lied.

We were scared

of what honesty would sound like out loud.

While I was trying to disappear,

my brother was trying to exist,

transitioning,

rebuilding his reflection

He fought to be seen as himself,

while I fought not to be seen at all. Two kids

at war with our own skin, standing on

opposite sides of the same mirror.

Dance became both my escape and my cage.

A place where I could fly,

and a place where I could fall

into the trap of every reflection.

Every “point your toes,”

every “hold your core,”

every “look at yourself.”

I did.

Too much.

Now,

I’m learning that mirrors

only show what light hits them.

They don’t see the ache behind the pose,

the history in the hunger,

the strength that stayed

when I finally started to eat again.

Now,

years later,

there’s another friend.

A dancer.

She skips lunch.

She counts calories under her breath like a prayer.

She tells people she ate at home.

She calls herself fat

with a laugh that cracks at the edges.

She’s drained.

And I see her,

really see her.

It’s like watching my past

replay in someone else’s body.

I want to shake her,

tell her the mirror lies,

that hunger doesn’t equal beauty,

that control isn’t healing.

But I remember how I used to flinch

at anyone’s concern.

How pain feels like safety

when it’s the only thing you know.

So instead,

I dance beside her.

I let her see me eat.

I let her see that I exist

without apology.

Because the mirror doesn’t own me anymore.

It still talks,

but I’ve learned to talk back.

To remind it

that this body is not a mistake.

That I can love it,

and still be learning too.

I still dance in front of the glass,

but now, sometimes,

I catch myself smiling.

Not because I look perfect,

but because I look alive.

Seventh grade me would be proud I think.

And maybe,

just maybe,

if I keep living,

keep loving,

keep eating, breathing, dancing,

my friend will see that too.

And maybe, just maybe,

the mirror will, one day,

finally,

learn to be kind.

LILY SHACKELFORD wrote “Mirrors” as an eleventh grader from Appleton, Maine, during a poetry class for a spoken word assignment. Drawing on her experiences with body dysmorphia and eating disorders in the dance world, the poem explores the complicated relationship between mirrors, control, and self-worth. The poem reflects on her journey toward healing and self-acceptance. Lily remains a competitive dancer and a dance TA, cherishing the time she has left with her dance family before moving on to new adventures.

"Mirrors" by Lillian Shackelford (Knox County)