More Than the Reflection
for the girl who’s been misunderstood, and the one doing the misunderstanding.
Throughout my life, I’ve carried this label of “perfect.”
Put together. Happy. Loud. Confident.
The girl who had it all together. The one everyone assumed was doing just fine.
But if I’m honest, I’ve always felt like a mirrorball.
Broken into a million tiny pieces but arranged so beautifully that it looked flawless.
Spinning fast enough to distract people from the fact that I was barely holding it together.
And the thing about a mirrorball?
It doesn’t shine on its own.
It only reflects whatever light is around it.
And for most of my life, I wasn’t reflecting God — I was reflecting people.
Their opinions. Their expectations.
Their version of me that they decided was acceptable.
In high school, I was “a lot.” I know that. I was loud. Outgoing. Always doing something. I had a nice car. I smiled big. I laughed hard — too hard for some people, apparently. I posted often. I lived like an open book. But people didn’t take time to read the pages. They just judged the cover.
Because I looked like I had it all, people assumed I did.
Because I was public, people thought they knew me.
But the truth? I was shattered. I was hurting. I was lonely.
And no one really knew.
Home wasn’t peaceful.
It was heavy.
From the outside, it looked like I had it good. But inside that house on Mustang Drive, I was carrying things no one could see. The second I walked out of the door each morning, I stepped into a version of myself that I had carefully built. Someone louder, bubblier, more exciting. Someone who could distract herself from everything she had to walk back into.
It’s like I got to escape, but only temporarily.
Because days always end.
And eventually, I had to walk back into the trauma I kept trying to outrun.
I would go to school and live out a lie. Smile like nothing was wrong. Joke around. Be “on.” But when I came home, the weight would crash back down. It felt like the silence inside those walls could swallow me whole.
No one gets me.
No one sees me.
No one cares if I fall apart.
That was the script playing in my head every night.
I’d lay in my bed — broken, empty — crying out for someone to notice. To care.
Wishing someone would stay.
Wishing I had a warm, affectionate, present family.
But I’d come home to emptiness. Neglect. Coldness.
Still, I didn’t think I was allowed to say anything.
Because to the public, I was perfect.
I had “blessings.” A car. A cute wardrobe. A social life.
And if I ever spoke up about what I was going through?
I’d be called dramatic. Spoiled. Ungrateful.
So I kept it all to myself.
I learned to quiet my screams and turn up the laugh track.
To be honest, I tried everything to not feel like her.
That girl from Mustang Drive who felt unloved by the people who were supposed to love her the most.
I never really blamed them.
They’re human. It’s their first time living too.
I didn’t hold it against them. Instead, I turned on myself.
Maybe I was the problem. Maybe I was just too much.
But no one knew.
And because they didn’t know, they kept talking.
Kept judging.
Kept making side comments.
Kept treating me like a stereotype.
Some even tried to fight me. No, literally. There were girls who tried to jump me.
I wish I was exaggerating.
And then there was social media.
The wildest part of it all was the anonymous confessions page that my school had.
It wasn’t called “Heidi’s Confessions,” but with how many posts were about me, it could’ve been.
Stuff like:
“Her laugh is annoying.”
“She acts like she’s all that.”
“Heidi laughs like a hyena.” — this one makes me giggle, I won’t lie!
“Daddy’s money.”
“Whitewashed ***.”
I read it all.
I laughed.
I said “they’re just jealous, right? lol.”
And honestly? I really believed I had brushed it off.
People around me were shocked.
“Heidi, how are you not crying right now?”
I really wasn’t.
I had learned to be numb.
I didn’t think it affected me. I thought I was strong.
But now, almost three years later, the damage is clearer than ever.
Never did I think that my inner monologue would sound like them.
That my thoughts would echo words spoken by someone else and not by words I chose.
I don’t think I’m too annoying.
It’s “You are too annoying.”
That’s how it comes through in my head.
Second person.
As if those voices are still standing over me.
Still commenting. Still smirking. Still picking me apart.
And what hurts most?
Those words came from other imperfect people.
People just as human as me.
But somehow, they stuck.
I let them in.
And now they echo.
And here’s where I need you to know this part:
God doesn’t just save us from others. He saves us from what we’ve come to believe because of them.
He saves us from voices that were never His.
He gently separates our identity from the insults we’ve internalized.
He breaks the loop.
And He gives us a new reflection to live from — not one that reflects others’ approval, but one that reflects Him.
Psalm 139:1–2 says,
“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.”
He knows the thoughts that don’t sound like me.
The ones that make me question if I’m too loud, too much, too “everything.”
And He replaces them with truth.
With His voice.
Isaiah 60:1 says,
“Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.”
That’s where my light comes from now.
Not from the people around me.
Not from what they say or think.
But from Him.
I used to be a mirrorball spinning for attention, reflecting everyone else.
Now?
I still reflect, but it’s His love.
His grace.
His goodness.
I’m not trying to impress anymore. I’m just trying to reflect the One who saw me when no one else did.
If you’re the girl who has judged and made comments without knowing the full story —
I’m not here to throw blame.
But I am here to remind you: people are carrying more than you can see.
Jesus said “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Mark 12:31)
And “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.” (Matthew 7:1)
You never know what someone is fighting behind that laugh or that outfit or that Instagram post.
And if you’re the girl who’s been judged, labeled, overlooked, picked apart — hear me when I say this:
That label isn’t your name. That comment isn’t your identity.
Even when others plot against you,
Psalm 21:11–12 says,
“They cannot succeed. You will make them turn their backs.”
Because God protects what the world tries to destroy.
And God restores what the world tries to shame.
He’s rewriting my inner monologue.
He’s quieting the noise.
He’s rescuing me not just from others, but He is rescuing me from myself.
And He can do the same for you.
Let’s be the kind of people who love more deeply.
Who stop assuming.
Who speak life — not labels.
Who reflect His light — not someone else’s spotlight.
Because we were made to shine.
But not on our own.
And not for the world.
We are more than the reflection.
We are fully known.
Fully loved.
And fully seen by a God who never needed us to be perfect to begin with.