The Mirror´s Edge

I’ve always found mirrors unsettling. Not in the sense that I avoid them—I’m not that neurotic—but in the way they force you to confront yourself. It’s a tricky relationship, this thing we have with our reflection, especially in America, where the mantra of “know thyself” has somehow morphed into “market thyself.” I can’t help but think we’ve all been swindled into believing that our greatest asset is, well, us.

Take a stroll down any street, and you’ll see it: people obsessively checking their reflection in shop windows, catching that glimpse of self that reassures them they are looking good... or maybe just that they still exist. It’s as if we’ve all become amateur detectives, constantly searching for clues to our own identity, which, if we’re honest, we don’t quite trust to begin with.

And it’s not just the physical reflection we’re after. The world’s real fascination lies with the intangible self—the one that’s always in need of improvement, validation, or, at the very least, our next TED Talk.

We’re bombarded with the notion that happiness is just a self-help book away, that inner peace can be found through meditation apps, or that the key to success is a vision board and an unhealthy amount of self-belief. It’s a wonder we don’t all have whiplash from the constant navel-gazing.

Yet, for all our introspection, I wonder if we’ve actually lost touch with ourselves. We’re so busy trying to perfect our image, to craft an identity that others will find appealing, that we’ve forgotten the messy, unfiltered version of who we are. The one that doesn’t always look good in the soft light of morning, or whose thoughts don’t fit neatly into 280 characters.

It’s ironic, really. The more we chase this idealized version of ourselves, the more we distance ourselves from the reality of who we are. We become like actors in a never-ending play, constantly changing costumes and personas, but never quite sure which role is truly ours. And in the process, we lose sight of the fact that maybe the most authentic version of ourselves is the one we’re most afraid to reveal.

But here’s the thing: I don’t even own a selfie stick. Social media? Not my scene.

My relationship with the self is more of a truce than a love affair.

And yet...

I can’t 100% seem to escape the gravitational pull of this culture of self-fascination. Maybe it’s because I’m surrounded by it, or maybe it’s because I’ve internalized it more than I care to admit. Either way, it’s a strange place to be—caught between the desire to understand myself and the suspicion that maybe, just maybe, I’m not all that interesting?!

In the end, it’s a mirror’s edge we all walk, balancing the need to look inward with the danger of falling into the abyss of self-obsession. This world may be in love with itself, but me? I’m just trying to keep a safe distance most of the time.

Because the truth is, I have a sinking suspicion that knowing yourself isn’t about perfecting a reflection or curating a persona, but more about accepting the contradictions, the flaws, the moments of doubt that make us human. More so, about realizing that the search for self shouldn’t be a quest for approval, but a journey toward understanding—a journey that’s often uncomfortable, and almost always incomplete.

So maybe the real challenge isn’t in finding ourselves, but in losing the need to define ourselves in the first place?

Maybe it’s okay to exist in the messy in-between, where the edges blur and the lines aren’t so clear. Because in that space, we might just find something more meaningful than a perfect reflection. We might find the freedom to just be. 

And maybe that uncertainty is the only truth we can trust.

Sing Me a Song: Words That Wound and Mend

There’s a strange comfort in the kind of music that doesn’t just pass through your ears but lingers in your soul, digging up the things you thought you’d buried long ago. Ben Howard’s music did that for me. It became the soundtrack to my darkest hours, where the line between pain and healing blurred into something almost indistinguishable.

His songs were the echo of my own silent struggles, each lyric cutting deep but somehow stitching me back together at the same time. It was like he knew the words I couldn’t say, the feelings I couldn’t express, and he turned them into melodies that made it all make sense—or at least made it bearable.

When I found myself in Vienna for a rare live show, it wasn’t just a concert; it was a communion of sorts. An open-air arena full of people who knew, who felt, who understood the quiet power of his lyrics. We were all there, together but alone, sharing in the unspoken connection that his music had forged between us:

"Some people dance
At the altar
Some people worship
Underground

You and I
We've been through all that
Hallelujah
Look at you now"

And so, this is my small thank you. To the music makers, for words that wound and heal, often in the same breath. For showing me that music can be both the knife and the salve. And for reminding me that, even in the darkest times, there’s a kind of beauty in the struggle—a beauty that can bring us back to ourselves. And look at us now...

 

Liquid Gold in a Croat Café

There’s something about getting lost in a foreign city that feels like a rite of passage for any traveler. It was on one such meandering adventure, channeling my inner Carmen Sandiego, that I stumbled upon a quaint café, tucked away in a cobblestone alley, where time seemed to stand still.

The café was tiny, with just a handful of tables, each adorned with a single, fresh flower in a glass bottle. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, promising comfort and warmth. Behind the counter stood an elderly man, his eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile. He was the barista, and as I would soon discover, a bit of a magician to boot.

Ordering was a delightful exercise in charades and broken phrases. I pointed to the coffee machine and gestured, hoping to convey my desperate need for caffeine. The barista chuckled, nodding in understanding. "Jedna kava, molim" (One coffee, please), I attempted, almost certainly butchering the pronunciation. He responded with a string of Croatian that left me more bewildered than before. Seeing my confusion, he smiled and said simply, "Kava?" (Coffee?) while pointing to the machine. I nodded vigorously.

As he began his ritual, carefully measuring, grinding, and brewing, I tried to make small talk from my (very) limited repertoire. “Kako ste?” (How are you?) I asked, hoping to connect. He grinned and replied, “Dobro, hvala. A vi?” (Good, thank you. And you?) I fumbled for a response, settling on a simple “Dobro” (Good), feeling more like a bumbling tourist than the impressive intrepid explorer I aspire to (!).

When he handed me the cup, I was struck by its simplicity—no fancy designs or elaborate presentations, just a steaming mug of coffee. I took a tentative sip, and the world around me seemed to brighten. It was liquid gold, rich and smooth, with a depth of flavor that danced on my tongue. 

Attempting to express my delight, I said, “Ovo je izvrsno!” (This is excellent!) He beamed, clearly pleased with my effort. “Hvala” (Thank you), he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I laughed, knowing my Croatian was far from perfect, but appreciating the back and forth -- and mostly his humoring my feeble attempts with good humor and much (much) grace. Then there was just silence...me having reached my limit of language tricks to pull from the hat. After all, my Croatian is about as good as my ability to navigate without getting lost—abysmal, but with occasional surprising successes. 

After a few moments, while I savored my drink, I got a bit brave again and made another stab at speaking at all coherently in Croatian. I pointed to a pastry on the counter and asked, “Što je ovo?” (What is this?) He chuckled, “To je burek. Želite probati?” (That is burek. Do you want to try?) I nodded eagerly, and he handed me the pastry with a flourish.

As he gave me the country specialty, he touched my hand gently, like a grandfather would, and winked like a cat who´d just caught a mouse -- his gesture making me realize what a huge thing such kindness is, even among strangers.

As I left the café, the barista waved and said, “Sretno!” (Good luck!) With a final wave, I stepped back into the cobblestone streets, feeling lighter, happier, and thoroughly caffeinated.

Sometimes, getting lost isn't such a bad thing after all. Especially when you find places that remind you that, much like my sense of direction, life is full of unexpected surprises.