The Wrong-Size Room Where Self Learns to Live
I live in the wrong size room.
This body—five-foot-six, soft around the middle, hair graying at the temples—feels like borrowed clothes. They almost fit. But they bind in places that matter.
The person living inside feels taller. Stronger. More graceful than the flesh that houses him.
My son sees me exactly as I am. Middle-aged. Slightly bent. Careful on stairs. He offers his arm when we walk. Worries about me slipping. Sees an aging father who needs protection.
But when I dream, I’m still twenty-five. Lean. Quick. Moving through the world with easy confidence. Running without thinking. Climbing without fear.
Then morning comes. The mirror delivers its daily shock.
This is who I am now. Not who I feel myself to be.
The face in the mirror is my father’s face. When did that happen? When did I stop being the young man and become this stranger with tired eyes and sagging skin?
Inside, I haven’t changed. Not really. I still feel like that twenty-five-year-old. Still think I can run that fast, jump that high, stay up that late.
But this body? This body politely disagrees.
I reach for objects assuming longer arms. They were longer once, weren’t they? I attempt movements my joints decline. “Not anymore,” they say. “Those days are gone.”
I speak with authority this face struggles to convey. People see the tired exterior and assume tired thoughts. They don’t know the mind racing inside this slow-moving shell.
This mismatch isn’t vanity. It’s deeper than that.
It’s the strange feeling of being trapped in the wrong costume. Like an actor forced to play a role that doesn’t suit him. The costume fits technically. But it’s not right. Not who he really is.
Some mornings, I catch unexpected glimpses of myself. Reflection in store windows. Photographs at family gatherings. And I feel profound sadness.
Not about aging. About the distance between what I feel inside and what the world sees outside.
The worst part? Others see only the exterior.
They make assumptions. About my capabilities. My personality. My worth. Based on the envelope, not the letter inside.
The tired-looking man in the mirror isn’t the energetic thinker writing these words. The careful walker with the graying hair isn’t the adventurous soul living beneath the skin.
My voice carries decades more confidence than my appearance suggests. My mind moves faster than these careful footsteps. The person inside this flesh is more passionate than this cautious exterior reveals.
I watch younger people. Twenty-somethings with their easy movements, their unconscious grace. They don’t know what they have. That body that simply works. That appearance that matches their internal age.
They will know someday. When they look in the mirror at fifty and wonder: Who is that person? Where did I go?
My wife understands this somehow. She’s the only one who sees both versions of me. The exterior that’s aging. The interior that hasn’t changed.
“You still have that look,” she says sometimes. “That young look in your eyes when you’re excited about something.”
She sees the boy I was. Still living somewhere inside this aging body. Still dreaming. Still hoping. Still feeling immortal despite mounting evidence to the contrary.
My daughter brought home a photo from her childhood. I’m in it, holding her, both of us laughing. I stare at this younger version of myself and feel strange recognition.
That’s me. That’s who I am. Not this reflection in today’s mirror. That laughing father with the dark hair and smooth face. That’s the real me.
But it’s not. Not anymore. That version is gone. Replaced by this older model. Same consciousness. Different packaging.
The Buddha taught that attachment to the body causes suffering. That we should recognize its impermanence. Accept its changes.
Easy to say. Hard to practice when you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.
Yet slowly—very slowly—I’m learning something.
This body has earned its appearance. These lines around the eyes? From laughing. From squinting at sunsets. From years of seeing beauty.
This soft middle? From meals shared with loved ones. From celebrations. From living, not just existing.
These careful movements? From wisdom. From learning that rushing breaks things. That slowness has its own grace.
This gray hair? Each strand is a story. A challenge faced. A lesson learned. A year survived.
The mismatch I feel—it works both ways.
This body has carried me through experiences that forged the consciousness I treasure. These hands have written words I’m proud of. Held my children. Built a life.
These eyes have seen beauty that shaped my soul. Watched my children grow. Witnessed sunrises and love and ordinary miracles.
These feet, now careful on stairs, have walked paths that made me who I am.
Perhaps the sadness isn’t about inhabiting the wrong body. Perhaps it’s about not recognizing this body as the right home for exactly who I’ve become.
The young body was right for the young consciousness. Energetic. Reckless. Unformed.
This aging body is right for this consciousness. Thoughtful. Careful. Shaped by years.
I’m not trapped in the wrong room. I’ve simply grown into a different room. Older. Weathered. But mine.
My son sees an aging father. But he’s wrong and right. I am aging. But I’m also still that twenty-five-year-old dreaming inside. Both are true.
The person in the mirror is a stranger. But he’s also me. The me I’ve become. The me I’m becoming.
The distance between internal and external is real. But maybe it’s not wrong. Maybe it’s just human. Part of what it means to age while consciousness stays somehow timeless.
Tonight, I look in the mirror differently.
Not with shock at the stranger. But with recognition of a companion. This body that’s been with me through everything. That’s carried me here. That’s aging because I’m living, not despite it.
These aren’t borrowed clothes that don’t fit. This is my skin. Worn. Weathered. But mine.
The room isn’t the wrong size. I’ve just grown to fill it differently. And there’s grace in that. Beauty even.
The young man’s body was beautiful in its way. Smooth. Strong. Quick.
This older body is beautiful in its way too. Scarred. Slower. But rich with history. Every line a story. Every ache a memory.
I inhabit exactly the right room. The one earned through years of living. The one that matches not who I was, but who I’ve become.
And perhaps that’s enough.
The mirror will shock me tomorrow too. That’s okay. The young man inside will always be surprised by the aging man outside.
But slowly, I’m learning they’re both me. Both real. Both necessary.
The wrong size room is actually perfect.
It just took me this long to realize it.
