THE SABOTEUR IN THE MIRROR

I had everything women pray for. Love. Children. A career that didn't just pay the bills-it whispered the word "purpose" in boardrooms and awards ceremonies. A husband who brought me tea before his own coffee. A daughter who called me "Mama" like it was sacred. A closet full of suits tailored to ambition, and a house whose silence rang with elegance, not emptiness.

And yet.

It began with a mirror.

Not the kind you glance at to check your lipstick or adjust your scarf. This one didn't forgive. It didn't flatter. It didn't lie.

It was an ordinary Monday morning. I stood in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping from the shower. My daughter had already left for school. Juma had gone to work an hour before me, as always. I was alone, as always. The silence was clean, manageable. But that day, it felt like I was trespassing in my own life.

I caught my reflection and paused-not because I looked beautiful or tired, but because I couldn't feel anything at all. There was no emotion behind the eyes. Just... vacancy. I leaned closer, wiped the steam from the glass with my palm.

I didn't recognize myself.

My name is Sofiah Abdi, but no one calls me that anymore. Friends used to shorten it to Sofi, as if shrinking my name made me easier to hold. It didn't. I have always been a woman of sharp edges and neat lists. I color-code calendars. I memorize my daughter's school events and boardroom financials with equal urgency. I don't forget birthdays-though I often forget how to breathe.

I looked into that mirror and hated what I saw. Not because I was ugly or old-my skin still carried the glow of youth, my waist had returned after childbirth. It was something deeper. Something rotting behind the beauty.

This story isn't an apology. It's not even a confession. It's a map of the land I burned while smiling. The story of how I sabotaged my life-not because I was unloved-but because I didn't know how to love myself without being worshipped. There is a difference, I've learned, between being adored and being seen.

My mother used to say, "A woman must bend to keep the family from breaking." She bent so far, she vanished. I promised myself I would never be like her.

Instead, I became something worse.

That morning, I dressed in navy blue-a power color. A blouse with subtle embroidery from a Senegalese designer, pants stitched in Italy, heels I'd paid too much for. Everything about me screamed control.

But the woman inside was slipping.

Juma texted me around 8:15 a.m.

"Have a good day, Sofi."

I stared at the message. It was sweet. Expected. Harmless. I didn't reply.

Not because I was angry-but because I was nothing. And nothing is more dangerous than a woman who feels... nothing.

In the office, they called me "The Architect." I didn't build structures. I built systems-teams, projects, trust. I had a way of making people feel safe, seen, valued. They didn't know I was falling apart. Or maybe they did. Maybe they were just too polite to mention the cracks.

That morning, we had a strategy meeting. I stood before a projector, explaining key performance indicators like they were gospel. My assistant, Lydia, brought coffee. The intern took notes too eagerly. Someone complimented my shoes. I laughed. I nodded. I led.

And all I could think about was the mirror.

There was a time I used to pray. Not in any formal way-but with hope stitched into whispered wishes. Back when Juma and I had first married, I believed in things like morning routines and shared goals and lazy Saturday brunches with no makeup.

He was patient. A man who ironed his own shirts. A man who knew how to ask about my day without making it a chore. When I told my friends I had found someone who didn't need fixing, they envied me. And for years, I wore our marriage like a trophy. Look what I've built. Look how balanced I am.

But balance is a myth.

There are seasons where even the most beautiful lives start to suffocate. For me, it was subtle. I stopped laughing. Stopped wanting. Stopped being curious about who I was becoming.

I stopped touching Juma. Not out of anger. Out of numbness.

We became polite. Partners in logistics. Coordinators of calendars and groceries. The spark didn't die in a fire. It evaporated slowly, like the steam on that mirror.

There was a time I used to pray. Not in any formal way-but with hope stitched into whispered wishes. Back when Juma and I had first married, I believed in things like morning routines and shared goals and lazy Saturday brunches with no makeup.

He was patient. A man who ironed his own shirts. A man who knew how to ask about my day without making it a chore. When I told my friends I had found someone who didn't need fixing, they envied me. And for years, I wore our marriage like a trophy. Look what I've built. Look how balanced I am.

But balance is a myth.

There are seasons where even the most beautiful lives start to suffocate. For me, it was subtle. I stopped laughing. Stopped wanting. Stopped being curious about who I was becoming.

I stopped touching Juma. Not out of anger. Out of numbness.

We became polite. Partners in logistics. Coordinators of calendars and groceries. The spark didn't die in a fire. It evaporated slowly, like the steam on that mirror.

One evening, I found myself sitting in my car long after getting home. I stared at the dashboard, engine off, keys still in the ignition.My daughter's laughter floated faintly from inside. Juma was probably helping her with homework.

I didn't want to go in.

I knew what awaited: small talk, dinner, TV, sleep. And I wondered when my life had become so... quiet. Not peaceful. Just muted.

There's a kind of violence in silence. Especially when you're the one who created it.

Two weeks after that Monday mirror moment, I met Ahmed.

He was a keynote speaker at a conference on leadership and ethical enterprise. A former CEO turned consultant, all charm and insight. He said the right things-about transparency, emotional intelligence, disruptive thinking. But it wasn't what he said on stage that drew me in. It was what he said during coffee.

"You're Sofiah Abdi," he said, not like a question but a recognition.

"Yes," I replied, guarded.

"I've read your policy brief on equitable hiring. Twice. You write like someone who sees under the skin."

It was a compliment no one had ever given me.

He wasn't flirting. Not then. He was listening. And for a woman starving to be seen, that was enough.

I didn't fall into the affair overnight. It was a slow hunger. First we exchanged emails-professional, but warm. Then a phone call. Then he sent a voice note-something small, thanking me for a recommendation I'd made during a panel.

Then another:

"I keep wondering-who do you become when no one's watching?"

I should've stopped then. Blocked him.Remembered I was a married woman with a child and a reputation.

But instead, I listened to the voice note five times.

That night, I stood in front of the mirror again. No makeup. No perfume. Just me. And I whispered to my reflection, "Who are you?"

She didn't answer.

There are things we do not because we want to destroy our lives-but because we're trying to feel alive again.

That's how it starts.