Mirror Magic (as 6-Year-Old Me)
I write this ritual story as a love offering to myself—a return, a remembering, a soft landing into the arms of the little girl I once was and still am. This is for my 6-year-old self, who looked in mirrors and already knew she was the cutest thing walking. She didn’t need the world to tell her she was enough. She didn’t question her joy. She didn’t ask permission to feel her feelings or to be loud or quiet or silly or bold. She just was. And that was more than enough.
As an adult, I’ve spent so much time unlearning shame, untangling old beliefs, and healing from the places where love felt missing or conditional. But the deeper I go, the more I find her—this little version of me—still intact. Still full of wonder. Still ready to show me how to love without hesitation. This ritual story is a way to speak to her, honor her, and remind myself that self-love isn’t something I have to earn. It’s something I get to remember. Something I get to choose. Every day.
This story is playful on purpose. Tender on purpose. It’s full of joy, imagination, truth, and sweetness. It’s rooted in ritual, but it’s not stiff. It breathes. It giggles. It skips and spins and makes funny faces. And underneath it all is something sacred: the right to belong to myself fully. To love me deeply. To affirm me out loud.
This is how I reparent myself—with softness and sparkle, with voice and mirror, with stickers and LEGOs and whispered prayers under the covers. This is one way I honor the Spirit within me.
I share this ritual story as a living prayer for anyone who needs help remembering how lovable, magical, and worthy they already are—especially the parts of us we left behind or told to be quiet. May this bring you back to your own little self. May it help you say, without flinching, “Yeah, you cute.”
Sunday, May 27, 1984
Every time I see a mirror, I stop and make a face. I puff my cheeks. Stick out my tongue. Tilt my head to the side like I’m thinking real hard. Then I giggle and say, “Yeah, you cute!” I might even blow myself a kiss or wiggle my eyebrows like I’ve got a secret. My reflection always smiles back like she knows exactly what I’m up to.
This is my self-love game. I made it up. Nobody told me to do it—I just know it feels good. Like sunshine on my cheeks or jumping into a big pile of pillows.
When I wake up, I stretch like a cat and say, “Good morning, me!” I check in the hallway mirror first thing, just to see if I still got it. (I do.) I brush my teeth and do a little dance in between. Sometimes I sing into my toothbrush like it’s a microphone and the bathroom is my stage. The whole crowd is cheering. (It’s just my toys. But still.)
I wash my face real gentle like she’s made of sugar clouds. I am. I pat her dry and smile at myself. “Hello, pretty face,” I say. I pick out my clothes like I’m dressing up for a big adventure. Even if I’m just playing at home, I wear my favorite shirt with the sparkles or the one that makes me feel like a superhero.
I talk to myself all day. “You got this!” “Oooh, look at you being brave!” “That was smart thinking!” If I mess up, I don’t yell at me. I say, “It’s okay. We’re still learning. You’re still awesome.”
When I feel grumpy or sad, I let myself feel it. I don’t have to be happy all the time to be lovable, to be me. I hug my pillow and pretend it’s me hugging me. I say, “I got you, baby girl. I’m right here.” Then I find something that feels good—drawing, singing, watching wrestling, playing with stickers, organizing my baseball cards or building my dream house with LEGOs.
I listen to my heart when she talks. I ask, “What do you need today?” My heart usually says something like, “Play outside,” or “Jump on the bed,” or “Dance to the music that makes you feel real good.” I listen, because my heart is super wise.
I love how my hair puffs out like a lion. I love my freckles. I love how shiny my skin is in the Sun. I love when I make funny faces and laugh so hard my tummy wiggles. I love me loud. I love me quiet. I love me all the ways.
And at night, when the lights get low and everything feels soft, I crawl under my covers like it’s a cozy cave. Before I close my eyes, I peek one more time in the mirror, just to check. I smile. I whisper, “Good job being you today.” My reflection always winks back and says, “Yeah, you cute.”
Every time. Every day. Forever and ever.
With love and giggles,
6-Year-Old Me
Thank you Spirit.
With Gratitude
Thank you to my 6-year-old self—for being so bold, so bright, so full of wonder and wisdom. For loving freely. For making faces in mirrors and never needing a reason to dance. You knew the truth before the world tried to rearrange it. Thank you for never letting that truth die, even when I forgot how to hear it.
Thank you to my present self—for being brave enough to listen. For slowing down long enough to look back and honor the little girl inside. For allowing softness. For reclaiming joy. For writing this love back into the body.
Thank you to Spirit—for holding me through every version of myself. For whispering through my reflection, through my laughter, through the music, through the stillness. For making sure I always find my way home.
To anyone reading this: Thank you for witnessing. May this ritual story remind you that you are worthy of love in your wildest, weirdest, most wonderful form. May your own inner child feel seen, appreciated and loved. May your heart always remember how to play.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for being you.