Every morning, I stand in front of the mirror like a confused time traveler, wondering how I got here and why my hair looks like an abandoned bird’s nest. The answer should be right there in my reflection, but nope—just a blurry, slightly judgmental figure staring back at me like it knows all my secrets.

I wipe the mirror dramatically, expecting some great revelation. Maybe today’s the day I finally understand myself. But all I get is a streaky mess and an even more disappointed-looking version of me. Seriously, is my reflection silently judging me, or is that just the angle?

People with their “morning routines” and “life plans” make it look easy. They wake up knowing exactly who they are, where they’re going, probably with a green smoothie in one hand and enlightenment in the other. Meanwhile, I’m over here playing a daily game of Guess That Silhouette. Am I a deep thinker? A lost soul? A walking reminder that I should drink more water? Who knows!

I try to clear things up—wipe harder, stand at a different angle, blink aggressively like that’ll somehow fix my existential crisis. But just like the mirror, my sense of purpose remains fogged up. I’m a mystery even to myself. Maybe I was never meant to have definition. Maybe my whole existence is just one big steamy coming soon trailer, where even I don’t know what’s next.

And you know what? That’s fine. Maybe being a foggy mirror is better than being one of those hyper-clear, magnifying mirrors that expose every pore and every bad decision. I’d rather stay a little mysterious—just enough that people squint and think, “Hmm, there’s something deep going on there,” when really, I’m just waiting for the fog to clear so I can find my toothbrush.