It’s always taken ages for the water in my shower to warm up. After my battle with the weight of my tired eyelids and warm sheets, I must wait for the heater to win its own fight with the old pump in the shed. It’s been replaced and repaired once or twice but still, it’s not nearly as scolding hot and reactive as it once was, yet I’m glad I’ll no longer feel that initial sting when the knob slips just a little too far. Some days I take my time stepping in, letting go as the heat hits my skin like a blanket of love, but on others, when the time’s slipped through my fingers and last night’s unfinished assignments still linger on my breath, I have to race to scrub every inch, to rub off yesterday's mascara and erase what yesterday wrote, to step out a clean slate for the new day. 

That’s the thing about my shower; I’ve lived a thousand lives between three walls of tile and a sliding door of glass. Under steamy water, I’ve given world tours of Alicia Keys covers worthy of Carnegie Hall, held my hairbrush microphone as though it was covered in swarovski. I’ve traversed the vast jungle of my hip length hair, using the machete of my wet brush to clear a path between  the coffee colored strands for my fingers to run through. When my mom pounds on my door for me to get out, I’m too deep into my mission to notice, conditioner and stray hairs covering me and my tub. I’ve had a smile plastered on my face as I’m half-in-half-out, dripping water on my teal rug, phone in hand, and heart pounding, unable to wait until I’m dry to text him back. I’ve had philosophical debates and said prayers - quiet and loud. I’ve dissolved into the air around me when I used to meditate… but it’s been a while. 

My shower has taught me things. From the once overcrowded built-in shelf with products I adore once crawled my absolute worst fear; a true horrid monster, a big ugly hairy roach, the kind that hides in the shadows of messy garages and old walls, not clean tile and scented soaps.  And on that night at 1 am, I let out a blood curdling scream, as I’d been invaded in what I thought was my safest sanctuary. Since then, I’ve left spaces between every product so I can see between and behind them. Nothing can crawl out from the shadows to get me anymore -- or I like to think so. In my shower I’ve hurt quiet and loud. A few summers past, on days I dealt with things no one knew, I’d lay crawled up after days spent sweating, swimming, smiling, until water seeped through my shower cap and dampened my bun, and I fell almost asleep, too tired to even cry. But I’ve also smiled from ear to ear and realized how far I’ve come on the long journey back to myself. Sitting in the tub, I’ve seen my reflection in the spotty glass many times, emphasized by the dark wood of the cabinet that parallels it. My shower has been a warm hug, the safe arms of my mother, a shape shifting time traveling machine, and most of all a mirror. I see the familiar reflection held up to my face, and I choose to love her.