As I gaze into the mirror, I can’t help but notice the familiar features that echo my mother’s face: the pronounced jawline, the deep-set eyes, the high forehead, and the subtle slope of her nose. Fourteen years have passed since her death, and yet, seeing her likeness in my own reflection provides both an unsettling and comforting experience—a quiet reminder of her presence. Growing up, I never believed I resembled her much, but now, at 41, as the softness of youth fades, I see her more clearly in my features.
My new glasses, bold brown tortoiseshell frames, only enhance this resemblance. My mother was rarely seen without her glasses; they were an integral part of her identity. During a brief stint in her 40s, she attempted contact lenses, but it quickly became evident that glasses suited her best. Without them, she appeared incomplete, her features slightly off-kilter. Severely nearsighted, she’d wake up each day to put them on and wouldn’t remove them until bedtime. In fact, I can vividly recall her swimming with them, her curly red hair pinned high as she glided through the water with grace.
She always chose stylish frames, much to my father’s dismay regarding their cost. “They’re the one accessory you wear constantly,” she would tell me, “and right in the center of your face!” With frequent trips to Europe for her fashion career, she often returned home with unique pairs that no one else in the States had. The variety was striking, from chunky to delicate, square to round. As a child, it would take me days to adjust to her new looks. When she passed away suddenly at 56 from cancer, a young doctor returned her glasses to us in a plastic bag, along with other personal items. The sight of her nearly new brown oval-shaped glasses triggered an outpouring of grief right there in the hospital lobby.
I was born when she was 30, and my strongest memories are from her 40s—an age I’ve now reached. To me, she was always enchanting, but I wonder what she saw when she looked in her compact mirror. Did she notice the gray creeping into her red hair or the fine lines beginning to form? Did she ever think about the passage of time? “When people say you look tired, Daisy, they really mean you look old,” she once said while applying powder.
I would watch her morning routine with rapt attention: moisturizing, concealing, grooming. I absorbed every detail of her—those long fingers, the curve of her collarbone, her straight teeth. One day, she caught me staring and said, “I used to look at my mother the same way, thinking she was old and unattractive, unable to imagine I would ever look like that.” I wanted to tell her that I thought nothing of the sort.
Navigating life without her, I rediscover memories I thought I’d lost. The way she curled her eyelashes to avoid hitting her lenses, how she smoothed out her forehead to diminish the lines between her brows—these actions have become my own as I morph into her likeness. I now wear my glasses on hectic days to help mask the dark circles under my eyes, just as she did. It dawns on me that perhaps this is why others preferred her with her frames perched on her nose. So many things make sense now that didn’t before.
When my children were born—children she never had the chance to meet—I scanned their faces for signs of her traits. Did Max inherit her nose? What about Lily’s hair? And Ellie, named after her, already dons a pair of trendy purple frames at just 8. She’s in all of them, undeniably. Yet when I look in the mirror, I see my mother’s essence most vividly within myself—not just in my appearance, but in the way I navigate life and nurture my children, instilling in them the independence and style she cherished. As I wear my glasses, I see the world she missed.
If you want to learn more about similar experiences, you can check out this post on Cervical Insemination. Additionally, if you’re looking for a reliable source for at-home insemination kits, I recommend visiting Make a Mom. For more information on intrauterine insemination, look at this excellent resource from the NHS.
In summary, the reflection of my mother in my own features serves as a bittersweet reminder of her life and legacy. As I navigate my own journey as a parent, I carry her spirit with me, recognizing the strength and style she imparted to me.
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