A funny reflection about my reflection.

We all have that voice in our heads—the one we consult when making decisions, psyching ourselves up, or talking ourselves out of regrettable choices. Sometimes it’s calm, sometimes it’s nagging, and sometimes it’s downright mischievous. For me, that voice has a face.

He’s there every morning—the guy in the mirror. Not a roommate, not a friend, not an enemy. Just the uninvited squatter with bedhead and unsolicited opinions. My so-called personal self-advisor. The one who looks exactly like me but somehow smirks even when my face is straight.

Part coach, part heckler, part mischievous cousin who shouldn’t be trusted with car keys, he lives in my bathroom, my closet, and every reflective surface that catches me off guard.

He insists he’s my advisor. And somehow, he’s been right there through it all—every major milestone and tiny, forgettable moment. His pep talks wouldn’t make it into any self-help book, but they work. “You’re fine,” he says. “A little rumpled, sure, but fine. Besides, everyone else is too busy worrying about themselves to notice your socks don’t match.”

And he’s not wrong.

Before a meeting, he grins: “You’ll do great. And if you don’t? At least you’ve got a good story.” Debating a text? “Keep it simple. People like simple. Unless you want to add a smiley face—smiley faces are undefeated.” He even once said socks with sandals were fine because “confidence makes its own fashion statement.” Still not sure I forgive him for that one.

He’s also my confidant. I don’t have to explain much—he already knows. If I admit I’m scared, he doesn’t roll his eyes; he reminds me I’ve done harder things before. “You’ve survived worse,” he says. “Like that time you tried to jump that rickety bike ramp made of 30 bricks and an old ironing board? You’re tougher than you think.”

But his favorite role is mischief manager. He convinces me that a late-night taco isn’t just acceptable—it’s practically mandatory. “It’s fuel,” he says. “Besides, joy burns calories too.” He’s also the mastermind behind spontaneous ice cream trips, questionable snack combos, and the occasional “let’s just see what happens” moment. Hard to argue with that logic—or with him.

He’s not there to tear me down. He keeps me moving—sometimes by cheering me on, sometimes by making me laugh at myself. Life is serious enough; he reminds me not to take me too seriously.

So yeah, I listen. Not always, but often enough. Because he’s the voice that says: “You’ll be fine. You’re better than you think. And if you’re not, well, at least you’ll have fun trying.”

He’s my biggest critic, my loudest cheerleader, and my most sarcastic friend. He makes me laugh when I should probably cry, and roll my eyes when I should probably scream. 

And maybe that’s the secret: life isn’t about shutting him up—it’s about walking out the door with him still talking, because sometimes courage is just saying, “Fine, let’s do this… but if we fail, you’re taking the blame.”

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.