Reflections of a Girl’s Metamorphosis

Artwork by Elaine Zou

By Helen Kao

You approach me at the barre, hair wound perfectly into two tight buns. Every day I’m stationed at this wall in the ballet studio, a mere surface for the instructors to watch and critique the dancers’ every turn. But when you are here, I shine pink with your ribbons and sparkly tutu. Your pearly smile radiates freshness and I can sense the familiar energetic aura you always bring to the studio. Then, an audience materializes in my reflection—a full house, not a single velvet seat unoccupied. In your white feathery costume, you pirouette across the stage’s lake scene and land gracefully, impressively, flawlessly with the same pearly smile stretched wide on your face. Your giggle breaks the scene, but your joy remains and it’s clear how much you love your time spent dancing. I hope one day you can fulfill the ballerina dream instilled in your pure 7-year-old imagination.

Now, something is different. You no longer carry the same joy with you—you gave that up when you gave up dancing. You are eleven, and you hover timidly before me in the living room. Your image remains pure, but your radiance seems to have been left behind in Los Angeles. My shine from the ballet studio, too, has been replaced with water splashes and dust in this strange new Saratoga house we’re supposed to call home; these bare white walls and brown tiled floors are dull and uninspiring. A tear rolls down your cheek, barely noticeable, but I realize that you are quietly struggling to patch up the gaping hole in your heart. I sympathize with you—I wish I could be back home, reflecting your family photos on the cozy maroon walls. We are each other’s biggest comfort in this moment: you are my muse, everything that makes up what I am, and what you see in me is a reminder of the bittersweet love you carry within.

I see you in your bedroom standing at your door, but you seem small and far away. Your 14-year-old mind is clouded with all the thoughts in the world, each one swirling and looming like storm clouds. The clothes on your body don’t stay; they shift from one outfit to another to another to another, your identity ever-changing. I can practically see lightning crack through your mind with each bothersome reminder of overthought interactions with your new classmates. Booming thunder follows with each headache about how they perceive you. What is it that you want? You seem so distant from everyone and the storm grows stronger each day, swallowing more and more of you until you disappear. There’s no telling when this whirlwind thunderstorm will subside, what will happen to you, or what will happen to us—will you still need me to help guide you through navigating your troubles and hopes? Will you still find comfort in me the way you did before?

Now, three years later, you reappear before me at the door to your New York City dorm room. There are no storm clouds in sight; the sky is clear and sunlight streams in through the window, melting away any trace of the worries that once consumed you. Ribbons decorate your long hair and your flowy skirt once again, and your image is still and sure. Your path has been confidently paved; I can see that music brings you the same giddy feeling ballet brought you when you were seven. The beauty you find in playing flute shines through. All that I reflect back to you at this moment is exactly what you present to me: your aura is peaceful and your smile is luminous. I know now that you are happy because there is nothing that New York City cannot do for you—your contentment is my contentment. My reflection of you gleams with rosy sunbeams like the sunlight is filtering in at just the right angle to make your vibrant energy radiate. You stand beautifully before me, and I am at peace knowing and showing you that you are right where you need to be.