When I look in the mirror, I see a woman who has done her fair and not-so fair share of living. She looks back at me with a set of weary eyes. They have seen so much.

The reflection seems to only tell a portion of the story. To define just a fraction of who I am. Though my features bear witness to the genetics I've been assigned, they aren't able to show the ups and downs, joys and heartaches, the reason behind each tiny line etched into my skin. The mirror remains defiantly insistent on dealing in facts and figures.

Birthdays Amassed - 55

Anti-Aging Facial Products - Keep 'em coming

Gray Hairs - Unable to confirm count due in large part to Excellence by Loreal

The stats don't lie, but the actual truth is located beyond the looking glass.

The fabric of my DNA has been carefully sewn. A patchwork of experiences and identities fused by love, sweat and tears. Swatches of a little girl who adored dolls and daisies, books and music. Larger squares of a teenager asserting her independence, and collecting her mistakes along the way. The material of a young woman finding marriage and motherhood, and soon enough, discovering a new voice through publishing and prose.

I can rattle off a list of words to attach to my name. Descriptions to help define who I am. They are the things I do and have done. They are my accomplishments, my path, thus far. Mom, almost-Nana, daughter, wife, writer, editor, etc. Separately they don't say much, but when strung together they begin to paint a picture of my existence. My personal plot-line. Together they ground me in a robust history of events that have shaped my personality.

However, the woman behind these labels is an ever-changing entity. Not only in appearance, but in substance as well. That said, my past is relevant in my knowing who I am today. It is the armor I yield in times of uncertainty. It is the foundation upon which I fall during those more tenuous moments of transition - when change seems a bit more daunting than usual.

Being a mother is my touchstone. It is the place that is most sacred within myself. The part which is easily identifiable. The passion running through my veins. But there is always room for more. To expand on other areas of my life - so-called "roads" I've still to travel.

Though the mirror casts its circumstantial evidence, it does not reflect my heart or soul. It is unable to reveal the whole person behind those weary eyes. Yet, if you look closely you're liable to notice a flicker of hope in there, too. An unwavering light that represents the remainder of my journey - the mystery of what lies ahead. The new labels I have yet to gather.

Not just who I am. But who I am yet to be.