Golden Frame, Shattered Glass
My identity began as a mirror. A golden, sculpted, oval frame missing the fragile glass of its interior. A young girl, such as myself, did not need a reflection to validate her personality, to remember who she was, or the concept of her purpose. Those ideas were embedded in the thoracic cavity of my frame—unearthed in the depths of my soul and the entirety of my heart.
However, as I grew and advanced in the world of education, that sense of self began to unravel. Textbooks and competition consumed me, becoming a part of my crooked puzzle of an identity. Before I could realize, that mirror, once blank and bare, mutated into a broken, sharp, disfigured pane of glass, trapped by a round, shadowless lining, mocking the grandeur of what used to be.
I remember each award ceremony I attended from elementary to middle school. The routine was simple. Qualifying students with no C’s or bad citizenship scores walked the stage and received an award for their performance. If you had A’s and B’s, you were seen as a great student—but straight A’s? That was the holy grail.
At just 7, I received my first Principal’s Award. I was the only straight-A student in my entire grade and received a plaque with my name plastered across it. I was ecstatic and proud. Still, I knew it was only the beginning of my success. What I didn’t know was that it would also be the beginning of the overachieving mindset that would slowly consume me.
As I continued further into elementary school, so did my love for learning. It flowed naturally. Knowledge was the golden river, and I was the small boat, paddling along like there was no tomorrow. I grew up reading my Bible, participating in family studies and prayer sessions. However, those weren’t the things that earned awards. Being the smartest with the best grades did, so naturally, I leaned farther into my schoolwork than faith.
My curiosity became a vital part of me, fueling my passion and determination for knowledge, but as it grew, more pressure gripped me. What was once a passion began to chain me to a pursuit of achievement rather than purpose.
My curious agenda intertwined with my personality, earning me more awards, but also fueling my obsession with achievement. While these seemed like positive effects of passion, the negatives slowly began to outweigh them—tipping the scale and adding more shards to my mirror.
I didn’t realize how much I’d placed my value in academics until late middle school. As lessons became more intense, the pieces didn’t connect as easily—and it showed. I had A’s and B’s consistently, which seemed great to others. But to me, it was just okay. And as classmates began to outperform me, it became horrible.
I constantly compared myself—my grades to theirs, their work ethic to mine, my worth to theirs. It became a cycle. When I didn’t perform well, I felt depressed and worthless. In my twisted mind, intelligence was the only thing that made me special. So, when it failed me, I was nothing. The mirror I once didn’t need became full of broken pieces of what I thought I should be. My intelligence became my identity.
The amount of failure I faced in 8th grade was unlike anything before. I lost everything I’d set my mind to—and lost myself in the process. I’d lay in my creaky daybed, staring at the smooth eggshell ceiling, as every problem rained down on me..“Why? I don’t understand,” was the only thought I could manage, besides imagining what I could’ve done differently.
But even in the dark, I knew failure wouldn’t be the end. Through Yah’s voice, I realized I needed to change my perspective, to examine the intentions of my heart.
Faith has always been my #1 priority, but during those years, it didn’t come close. I realized I’d been living through textbooks when I should’ve been living through the word of Yah. I needed God to keep me grounded. Yahuah was always the Dyneema net—light, but strong—catching me through every fall. In the story of Job, he loses everything—yet still clings to faith. Because serving Yahuah was his purpose. The same is true for me.
The education I’ve received from Scripture has surpassed anything I’ve learned in school. It’s made me a better sibling, friend, and person. And so, the mirror, once full of misguided pieces of what I thought defined me, crumbled at my feet. The shards left scars on my bare soles—a souvenir. But that was okay. Because when I raised my head, the mirror was now empty. And who I saw was me—the true, disorganized, perfectly imperfect version.
In the end, my mirror still stands—only now reflecting who I truly am.
