Our bodies tell a story, but memory guides them. This thought lingers as I look at my pierced skin in the mirror. Body modifications were unimaginable to my 20-year-old Catholic self. Yet, a decade later, they are a part of who I am.
It’s funny how time shifts the lens through which we see ourselves. I recall a line from Voice from the Stone: ‘I hardly know the woman I see. But the past is a dream from which we wake with each new morning.’ Like Verena, I’ve become a vessel for a woman I once was—a version of myself that feels both familiar and distant. I’m still myself, but my essence has changed.
The past slips into my present, as I recall an apartment visit this week. I was sitting with Luz on her balcony, talking about travels, jobs, and my plan to sublet her room. It felt like a twist of fate, bringing me back to the moment I left New York City during the pandemic, moving out of my ex’s place, shedding yet another version of myself, that feels now both distant and surreal.
Luz looked so happy, living a life of small pleasures—weekend trips across Europe, annual family visits back home, joy found in simple moments. Her optimism filled the space between us, her name perfectly suited to her sunny outlook. I sat quietly, holding back the weight of my own thoughts, unwilling to say something that might dim the mood.
A question lingered, pulling me from the moment: Why couldn’t I see the good, my own kind of good? Why couldn’t I be content like Luz? Her happiness felt effortless, while mine seemed… distant. One emotion felt fitting: rage, not joy, seemed to take the front seat in my life right now.
I glanced at Luz, trying to hold on to her light, but I was wrestling with a part of me that felt like it was slipping away.
Back in the present, I glance at my pierced skin—a stark contrast to the woman I once was. In my mind, Luz is at peace; in the present, I’m in a state of rebellion, trying to understand who this new woman in the mirror really is. Most of all, why this new woman is so enraged.
We all carry our own stories, our own transformations. Mine is etched into my skin; Luz’s is tucked into her boundless optimism. I wonder if, like Verena, I’ll wake one morning at peace with who I’ve become. Until then, I linger here, holding the feeling—searching for a version of myself that feels… whole.