The Art Of Reflecting the Ones We Love
I’ve always loved the idea that humans are like living mosaics, collecting pieces of each other as we pass through life, almost like patchwork. A laugh inherited from your mom, a habit from your friend, or a silly quirk you got from your dad — we’re all just shining reflections of all the people we’ve ever known or loved. Every person we love leaves a part of themselves with us, and we carry them, often without noticing. We’re all just carrying pieces of each other as we move through life, and somewhere along the way, we find ourselves in the people we love most.
It’s almost like nothing we experience is ever truly lost. Every person becomes a potent, permanent piece of us, tucked away in places we might not even realize. And maybe that’s the reason we often recognize ourselves so clearly in the hearts of others, because, in some soft way, we’ve all already met.
And when I look at my own personal mosaic, I can hardly see myself — just a reflection of the people I love. Sometimes, it shows up in big, undoubted ways, like the way I pick myself up, just like my mom taught me, or the way I show up for others, because my dad always did. I see it in the softness I try to carry, often borrowed from my boyfriend, or the stolen jokes I tell that are really just whispers of my friends. I catch it when I try to be brave like my big brother, or confident like my little sister.
Other times, it shows up in quiet, small moments, like the way I often linger in the ice cream aisle at the grocery store, tossing a box of FatBoy in the cart just because they were my dad’s favorite. Or the way I pick up a paintbrush, inspired by my little brother’s creativity. I can feel it on a hot summer day, drifting in like a familiar breeze that reminds me of childhood memories made with my best friend. It gently sneaks up on me when I listen to a Billie Holiday song that reminds me of my mom, or when I suddenly crave radishes — not because I even like them, but because it takes me back to my grandma’s old kitchen. These small moments are reminders that the people I love are always there, even when I can’t see them.
Almost every part of me feels borrowed, and I refuse to think that’s a bad thing. Because if I’m a small piece of someone else’s mosaic, then so are the people who make up mine, and so are the people who make up theirs — and this connection goes on and on. In this way, we’re all connected so strongly that it’s hard to tell where one person ends and another begins. And yet, the inevitability of people leaving us remains. With every loss, every death, every heartbreak or breakup, these people linger. Sometimes as lessons, sometimes as grief, sometimes as stories or happy memories — they remain a part of us.
And maybe this is the only way we truly last, by living on in the people who carry us forward. Almost like hand-me-downs, pieces of us are passed along. Not always perfectly, not all at once, but in the ways we carry small fragments of the people we love and how we decide to share them with others.