Uncanny Reflections

Preparing for surgery, I bought four sets of button-up pajamas and found myself staring back at her reflection instead of my own.

I bought four new sets of pajamas, and one extra for my sister as a gift.

When I got home, I laid the haul out on my bed: neatly folded polyester sets, each with button-up tops. Nothing else would do. No pullovers, no half-zips. Just button-ups. That’s what the checklist said.

Normally, I sleep in a tank top and flannel boxers. Matching pajama sets always felt too cohesive, too adult. Besides, I tend to get hot at night. Sweating through coordinated long sleeves and pants never sounded appealing.

But this time was different. I needed button-ups so the tubes and drains could be organized after surgery. My arms would be too sore to lift above my chest.

And button-ups usually come in sets, so I traded my boxers and tanks for pink stripes and a black “Sunday Sleep” knit jersey set with white piping, a collar, and a chest pocket.

Except, I never wear pajama sets like these. The jersey fabric, the slouched fit, the full button-down front. It all felt foreign. When I tried on the black one, I caught my reflection and froze. It looked mature. It looked adult.

It looked like my mother.

She always wore jersey pajama sets to bed. The soft fabric and my Ugg slippers made the resemblance undeniable. My rounded cheeks, dark hair, and pale skin, all the features that link me to her and stood out even more. I looked like a mom, and I looked like my mom.

The realization was unbearable. I changed immediately.

I pulled on the pink striped flannel set instead. Looser, lighter, more youthful. The shorts showed my thin frame, and suddenly I looked less like her, more like me. Or at least the version of me I could stand to see.

It wasn’t just about the pajamas. The reason I needed button-downs in the first place was because I wouldn’t be able to lift my arms after surgery. But even here, in this small act of preparation, I couldn’t escape her.

Two years of silence. Her name still missing from my caller ID. A mother whose absence feels deliberate, who might say I somehow deserve it.

And so I find myself running from something that lives inside me. The parts of her I can’t remove. Every time I step closer to adulthood, closer to my own maturity, I see her face in mine. I feel her presence in my choices.

It leaves me wondering: are we forever coded by what made us? Can we accept the things that live in our DNA without letting old memories stain the present?

All I wanted was a few new sets of pajamas. But even in the soft folds of fabric, I’m reminded sometimes, becoming yourself means learning to wear what was never quite yours to begin with.