What I've learned about myself in hotel mirrors

The reflections that changed me

There’s something strange and sacred about hotel mirrors—they catch you in moments no that one else sees. Hair dripping from a post-flight shower, eyes puffy from spending 12 hours 30,000 feet in the air, makeup half-smudged and soul half-glowing, staring back at yourself under unfamiliar light. These self portraits aren’t always flattering, but they’re always brutally honest.

Over time I’ve come to realize that these mirrors have taught me more about who I am than any photo ever has.

I don’t look the same everywhere I go, and I shouldn’t.

There’s the south of France version of me, flushed from too much wine and not enough water after a long day in the sun. The Paris me, subtly chic and hunched over from walking so much, but also on day three of a killer sinus infection and pushing through. The Mexico City me is electric and honest. Sun-kissed, silver-clad, walking everywhere like I own the place and live there full time. And then there’s the upstate New York version of me: cozy, soft, intensely sad, and sleep deprived. She’s lonely and broken, but I still love her and hold her close.

Hotel mirrors reveal this wild truth: I am a thousand different women depending on where I am. And that doesn’t make me unsteady. It makes me endlessly expansive.

A mosaic of multitudes… happy, bloated, tired, jet-lagged, hot, hungover, questionable outfit choices, me!

I am not a project to fix. I am a body that moves.

In my early twenties, I used to look at myself with so much vitriol: Is my stomach bloated? Do I look tired? Should I have packed the other dress that doesn’t hug me tightly?

But something shifted when I started really traveling. Really living. Walking twelve miles a day, swimming in cold water, sweating through desert hikes and sleeping like the dead in crisp hotel sheets.

beach me is when I feel like the most “me”

Now, when I catch myself in the mirror, I don’t see flaws. I see evidence. Of movement. Of curiosity. Of showing up. That wrinkle on my cheek? A nap stolen on a plane. The scars on my forehead? The aftermath of skin cancer surgery, from too much sun seeking and tanning on beaches in my youth. These aren’t things to fix, and they’re not things I can fix. They’re proof I’ve been alive, around the world. I’ve seen so many wonderful things, and my body is a detailed map of my many unique experiences. Each marking is part of a bigger constellation that tells a story worth telling.

I trust the unposed version of myself more than ever.

There’s a moment, usually around day three of a trip, when my overall polish starts to fade. My nails have chipped, my digestion has gone to shit and my stomach is distended, my hair has gone completely rogue, and I haven’t worn a touch of makeup in days. And that’s the exact moment when I start to look beautiful. My appearance is not performative. I’m not putting on a show for anyone else. My body is merely a conduit for worldwide exploration, a sack that holds my soul and lets it shine brightly through, revealing the real, raw me. The happy, traveled, tired me.

The mirror once caught me laughing at a joke my husband Mark made mid-toothbrush, toothpaste spit dripping circuitously down my chin, covered in retinol and zit spot cream, wearing an old sleep shirt that said something really stupid like “I’m retired! This is as dressed up as I get!” and I remember thinking: I really like this version of me. She’s soft. She’s silly. She’s real. She doesn’t give a shit.

Mirrors hold space for grief, too.

Not all reflections are kind. Some reveal bone deep exhaustion from insomnia that even a full night’s sleep can’t undo, and others show the rawness that only a painful loss can etch onto a face. I’ve looked into many hotel mirrors since my mom’s passing, and they’ve revealed heartbreak and wisdom and time passing at the warp speed of light. They’ve revealed lessons learned and unlearned.

But regardless of where I’m at in life, the mirror never flinches, it holds me. It witnesses me, for me. Sometimes that’s all I need.

sick and exhausted in paris

Travel is often about the big moments—the landmarks, the meals, the memories made with those we love. But sometimes, the most profound part of a trip is the few quiet minutes spent with your own reflection, seeing not just where you are, but who you’ve become and how you’ve arrived there.

Hotel mirrors don’t lie, they just reveal. And I’ve learned to love the woman they keep showing to me.

xx,
Bella