“I covered my mirror for a month,” Helen said. “The full-length one in my bedroom. I draped a scarf over it. And every morning, I would stand in front of the covered mirror and say one thing my body had done for me the day before. Not what it looked like. What it did .”
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She stood before the full-length mirror in her bedroom, pinching the skin at her waist. It was a ritual—morning prayer for the secular age. She cataloged the flaws: the soft roll of her stomach, the width of her thighs, the arms that never seemed to tone no matter how many weights she lifted. “I covered my mirror for a month,” Helen said
The doctor was blunt. “You need to move your body. You need to eat anti-inflammatory foods. And you need to lower your cortisol. That means less stress, Helen. Less of… this.” He gestured vaguely at her life. And every morning, I would stand in front
Helen studied her for a moment, her eyes kind and surprisingly sharp. “Ah,” she said. “You’re still at war.”
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