Shadows on the Glass: My Life Through the Lens of Expectations

The train lurched, and I nearly lost my balance, my heel catching on the edge of the grimy subway floor. “Dammit,” I muttered under my breath, clutching the cold metal pole, pretending not to notice the man across from me openly staring. Why did I wear the heels again? Oh, right—because Mom always said a woman never knows who she’ll meet, even on the 7 train at midnight.

My reflection flickered in the window, blurred by the blackness of the tunnel outside and the harsh fluorescence inside. I almost didn’t recognize myself. Mascara smudged at the corners, lipstick faded after a long day in the gallery, and those damn crow’s feet, deepening every year. Mom would have something to say about that, too.

“Alicia, darling, a lady always puts her best foot forward. Don’t let them see you tired. Don’t let them see you weak.”

I could hear her voice as clearly as if she were next to me. She’d always been like that—unflinching, beautiful, terrifying. She could shatter my confidence with a single glance over her coffee mug. The way I wore my hair, the way I laughed too loudly, the way I never quite fit into the box she built for me out of old beauty pageant sashes and stiff Sunday dresses.

“You’re not eating again,” she’d say at dinner, her fork poised mid-air. My father would keep his eyes on his plate. I never knew if he agreed with her or was just too tired to argue.

“I’m not hungry, Mom. I had pizza after school.”

“Pizza isn’t dinner, Alicia. Look at you—you’re all skin and bones. You’ll never get a husband at this rate.”

I was fifteen. I didn’t want a husband. I wanted to paint, to let color and chaos spill from my fingers. But art was a hobby, she insisted, not a career.

“Be realistic, sweetheart. There’s no future in art. You need something stable.”

Maybe that’s why, even now, I never really let myself believe I could succeed. Even tonight, after my first solo show—reviewed as “raw and electrifying” by the local paper—I wore my tallest shoes and my thickest mask. I smiled, I networked, I pretended I belonged. But every compliment felt like a lie, every handshake a test I might fail.

The train screeched to a halt at Astoria Boulevard. A couple got on, laughing, holding hands. The girl wore sneakers and no makeup, her face flushed with joy. I looked away, stung by envy. How do you get there? How do you just… exist without worrying what everyone sees?

My phone buzzed. A text from Mom. “Did you meet anyone important tonight?” No ‘congratulations,’ no ‘I’m proud of you.’ Just the reminder that every event is an audition, every day a chance to prove I’m worthy.

I typed back, “The curator introduced me to some writers,” then deleted it. I didn’t want to give her that satisfaction. Instead, I turned off my phone and stared at my reflection again, daring myself to see the woman I’ve become, not just the daughter she raised.

My thoughts drifted to my younger brother, Jake, who escaped to Colorado after graduation. He calls sometimes, his voice breezy, unbothered. “You gotta stop letting her get to you, Al. She’s never gonna change.”

But I can’t help it. Every time I try to break free, I feel the pull of her expectations, like gravity. At Thanksgiving, when I mentioned I might move to LA for a residency, she clucked her tongue. “Why can’t you settle down and get a real job?”

“Because I’m not you, Mom,” I said, surprising even myself. Her face hardened, and she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. Dad hugged me before I left, his eyes watery. “She wants the best for you, honey. She just doesn’t know how to say it.”

But does she? Or does she just want to shape me in her image, so she can pretend her own sacrifices were worth it?

The train rattled on, the city blurring past. I thought about the gallery tonight, the way people looked at my paintings—some with wonder, some with confusion, but all of them seeing something real. I thought about the little girl I used to be, drawing in the margins of my math homework, hoping Mom wouldn’t find out.

A woman sat beside me, her bag overflowing with groceries. She caught me staring at my reflection and smiled softly. “Long day?”

I nodded, blinking back tears. “Yeah.”

“Well, you look like you did something important.”

I almost laughed. “I did. I just wish it felt that way.”

She patted my hand. “Give yourself a break. Nobody else will.”

The train pulled into my stop. I stood, my feet aching, but I didn’t rush. For the first time in a long time, I let myself just be tired, just be me.

As I climbed the stairs to the street, the city air sharp in my lungs, I wondered: How many of us are living for someone else’s approval, wearing shoes that don’t fit, hiding who we are? And what would happen if, just for one night, we finally let ourselves be enough?