The Mirror Under the Seat

When I speak to a room of women, I do an exercise.

Before they arrive, I place a small mirror on the floor under each seat. They don't see it. They sit down, settle in, and the talk begins.

I ask them, before anything else, to turn to the woman next to them and tell her what they see. The room does what it always does. They look at each other and say things like,

"Your eyes are this incredible green."

"Your skin is glowing."

"I love your hair like that."

I have done this in dozens of rooms, and I have never once had a woman pause, study her partner, and decline to find something beautiful.

Then I ask them to look under their seats.

There's a mirror waiting. They pick it up, and I ask them to do the same thing they just did, only this time to the woman in the glass.

The room changes. The pause is the first thing. Then the low rumble of awkward laughs before the looking starts. And then, nine times out of ten, I hear it. A woman saying to herself:

"I look tired."

"I hate this wrinkle."

"God, when did I get this old."

The same mouth that gave a true compliment to a stranger now gives a steady critique to the woman who has been with her since the beginning.

Here's what that room teaches me every single time. The kindness is already in you. Already trained, already fluent, already at the surface for the woman behind you in the grocery line. The judgment is something you've been bringing to the mirror. You can leave it at the door.

PUT ON the kindness you hand out so freely, and aim it at the mirror tonight. The first true kind thing that comes. You've been practicing on everyone else; let it be your turn

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