THE MIRROR WHERE GOD HID MY NAME.

THE MIRROR WHERE GOD HID MY NAME

A Reflection on Self-Love, Stubborn Lessons, and the Sacred Echo of Granny Celestine

By Kateb Shunnar

I didn’t know at fifteen that I was walking around like a house with busted windows pretending the wind wasn’t blowing straight through me. Back in 1993, my heart felt like somebody left it out on St. Bernard Avenue during hurricane season beat up, soggy, and leaning to one side like it needed FEMA assistance. But you couldn’t tell me nothing. I thought I had life figured out, strutting around in my oversized starter jacket, thinking the whole world was watching me walk down Claiborne like I was the grand marshal of the Zulu parade.

And right behind me or beside me, or in front of me, depending on how much she felt like lecturing that day was my grandmother, Celestine. Lord have mercy. Granny could talk about love longer than a Baptist preacher on Easter Sunday after he had two cups of coffee and a fresh revelation. Every time she started, I could hear that Charlie Brown “wah-wah-wahhhh” trombone in my head. I used to mumble under my breath, “Granny, PLEASE, not today.” But she kept talking anyway because that woman believed her voice was a spiritual prescription and my hardheaded self was the patient due for a refill.

She’d sit me down on her old porch on Jonquil , fanning herself with that beat-up funeral-home fan that had somebody’s uncle’s picture on the front, and she’d say, “Baby, you can’t love nobody till you love yourself.” And in my teenage brain, all I heard was, here we go again. I’d roll my eyes so hard I could see last week. She’d just smile that smile that looked like she knew I was gonna learn the hard way.

And oh, did I.

Because when you don’t love yourself, you go looking for affection the way some folks look for coupons  anywhere, everywhere, and usually in the wrong damn place. You start trying to pour yourself into people whose hearts got more leaks than a shotgun house roof in a rainstorm. You start thinking if you try harder, give more, love louder, maybe they’ll finally treat you right. But loving somebody who doesn’t have the capacity to hold your heart is like trying to fill a bucket full of holes  ain’t nothing staying, and you’re the one left empty.

At fifteen, though, I didn’t understand any of that. I thought love was something you earned by bending yourself into shapes God ain’t never intended. I thought affection came with conditions, like it was handing out report cards. Smile right. Act right. Be who they want. Shrink here. Stretch there. Hide this. Silence that. And if they left  well, that just meant I wasn’t enough. Not pretty enough, smart enough, sweet enough, lovable enough.

But Granny? She wasn’t having it.

She’d tap her fingers on that porch railing and say, “Child, this world will sell you a lie quicker than it’ll sell you a po’boy on a Sunday. Them people out there will make you think your worth got something to do with what you own, what you wear, who you datin’, or what kind of money you make. Don’t let them fool you.”

And at fifteen, I thought she was being dramatic. The same way I thought she was dramatic about her folklore the wild stories she would tell like they were gospel, just to keep me from making the same mistakes my stubborn soul was dead-set on making.

One of her favorites was the tale of Lady Toulouse and the Cursed Shoes, which she swore was true even though we all knew she was lying for entertainment purposes.

She’d clear her throat, tap her foot like she was calling on ancestors for dramatic effect, and say:

 “Don’t you ever buy a woman a pair of shoes or a watch, you hear me? ‘Cause it’s just a matter of time before she walk right out your life.”

Now, according to Granny, Lady Toulouse was a woman known all through Tremé for stepping out in heels so tall they looked like they came from a magical land where gravity ain’t got no jurisdiction. One day, her man bought her a shiny new pair of red stilettos and a gold-plated watch from a vendor on Canal Street who was selling goods that were “too hot to handle and even hotter to explain.” The moment she put them on, Granny said the shoes whispered to her, “Girl, you ain’t gotta stay here. Walk on now.” And the watch chimed back, “Tick-tock, baby time’s up.”

Lady Toulouse left that man so fast her shadow needed directions to catch up.

I used to laugh and say, “Granny, that ain’t real.”

And she’d clap back, “Maybe not, but the lesson is.”

Back then, everything she said sounded exaggerated, dramatic, sprinkled with extra seasoning  like her stories walked through the French Market and picked up spices from every vendor. But the older I get, the more her words show up in my life, tapping their feet like, you ready to listen now?

Because the truth is, when you don’t love yourself, your heart becomes a magnet for chaos. You start letting people treat you like a leftover plate something they heat up when it’s convenient and toss when they’re full. And you accept it because your own spirit has forgotten what it feels like to be held gently.

At fifteen, I didn’t know that. I thought love was supposed to hurt. I thought you were supposed to tolerate things that tasted like heartbreak mixed with hope. I thought sacrifice meant you gave all of yourself, even the tender parts you should’ve kept safe. I thought healing other people was the way to earn affection  like if I fixed them, maybe they’d finally see me.

But trying to save people who refuse to swim will drown you quicker than the Mississippi River in July. You can’t take breaths for two. You can’t love someone into loving you. And you damn sure can’t pour from a soul that’s been running on “E” since the Clinton administration.

Only you can rescue you.

And it took me years decades  to finally understand that.

I didn’t understand that your worth isn’t determined by how much love you give but by how much love you allow yourself to receive. I didn’t understand that holding onto someone who hurts you is just another way of hurting yourself. I didn’t understand that loneliness feels unbearable at first because you’re not used to your own company  but eventually, sitting with yourself becomes sacred.

Granny tried to tell me. Over and over. With love, with jokes, with stories, with fussing, with that look she gave me that said, “Child, you gon’ learn one day.”

And life made sure I did.

You can’t go running back into the same fire expecting not to get burned. You can’t reopen doors you prayed God would close and then act surprised when the same storm is waiting on the other side. You can’t keep pretending your heart ain’t tired when it’s screaming for rest.

But when you haven’t learned to love yourself, you trick yourself into believing suffering is part of the process. You confuse chaos with affection. You call it “chemistry” when it’s really trauma bonding. You call it “connection” when it’s really desperation. You call it “loyalty” when it’s really fear.

And the world don’t help none.

The world will tell you love looks like bouquets, fancy dates, matching outfits, filtered pictures, and performative affection plastered across social media. The world will tell you your value is tied to your income, your car, your house, your body, your status. The world will sell you illusions dressed up as love shiny, loud, and empty.

But real love genuine, soulful, God-touched love  ain’t flashy.

It shows up soft.

It shows up patient.

It shows up consistent.

It shows up like Granny Celestine’s voice echoing through decades, whispering, “Baby, start with you.”

Real love don’t need to entertain nobody. It don’t perform. It don’t beg for applause. It don’t force itself into places it ain’t welcome. It don’t come with price tags or conditions or expiration dates. Real love is a gift from God, and God don’t do clearance sales.

And you only learn that when you learn to love yourself.

Now, let me tell the truth self-love ain’t glamorous. People act like it’s bubble baths, candles, and affirmations whispered into mirrors. Sometimes it is. But most times? It’s messy. It’s awkward. It’s you sitting in your room realizing you’ve been breaking your own heart by trying to force something that was never meant to fit. It’s admitting you stayed too long, gave too much, ignored too many warning signs, and called it devotion.

Self-love is when you stop lying to yourself about what hurts.

It’s when you stop letting your ego trick you into chasing people who can’t hold you. You know that ego the one that says, If I can make them love me, then I’ll finally feel whole. The ego is a slick little devil; it will have you thinking pain is a puzzle you can solve. But in reality, you ain’t solving nothing you’re just losing pieces of yourself trying.

Granny used to say, “Ego ain’t nothing but a loud mouth with bad advice.”

She was right.

When you love yourself, you stop chasing noise and start listening for peace. And peace ain’t loud  it whispers. It sits with you. It grows slowly, like okra in the backyard. It don’t force you to be nobody else. It don’t require you to shrink. It don’t punish you for resting.

But you gotta choose it.

That’s the part nobody prepares you for self-love is a choice you have to make every day, sometimes every hour. You gotta tell yourself, No, we’re not going back to that. No, we’re not begging for acceptance. No, we’re not ignoring red flags that waving like Mardi Gras day. You gotta love yourself enough to walk away even when your heart still wants to stay. You gotta love yourself enough to heal even when hurting feels familiar. You gotta love yourself enough to believe God didn’t make you to be anybody’s emotional punching bag.

I think back to those afternoons on Jonquil  Street. I can still hear the cicadas buzzing louder than Granny sometimes, but her words always found a way to sink into me, even when I pretended not to listen. She’d rock back on that porch swing, tap her knee, and say, “You gon’ understand one day. Love starts inside. The rest finds you after.”

And standing here now  December 8, 2025  I realize that woman wasn’t crazy at all. She was prophetic.

She saw the cracks in me before I ever knew I had them. She saw the way I was searching for sunshine outside when all I had to do was open the curtains inside. She saw the storm I was carrying in my chest and knew healing had to start with me. Not with a partner. Not with friends. Not with validation. But with the quiet, uncomfortable, powerful work of learning to love the person staring back at me in the mirror.

Let me tell you something  mirrors don’t lie. They show you what’s real, even when your heart wants fiction. And for a long time, I avoided mirrors because I didn’t want to face the truth: I didn’t like myself. Not really. I liked the performance, the persona, the version of me I thought the world wanted. But the real me? The one beneath the jokes, the toughness, the pretending? I treated that person like an afterthought.

Self-love forced me to stop abandoning myself.

That’s the real heartbreak  not losing someone else, but realizing you’ve been losing you for years.

And healing? Healing is not a straight line. Healing is you sitting on the floor crying because you finally understand why certain relationships felt like drowning. Healing is forgiving yourself for not knowing better. Healing is unlearning the habits you developed when you were trying to survive. Healing is choosing to let peace in even when chaos feels familiar.

Healing is when you stop taking responsibility for wounds that ain’t yours.

See, when you grow up thinking you’re supposed to fix people, you forget that not everyone wants to be whole. Some folks like their brokenness because it lets them avoid accountability. You can’t be their healer. You can’t be their therapist, their savior, their emotional spare tire. You can’t keep trying to make someone into something they don’t want to be. You can’t drag a person toward growth  they’ll just become dead weight.

And baby, dead weight ain’t nothing but exhaustion wearing somebody else’s name.

Granny knew this, too. She’d say, “Stop tryin’ to be a nurse when God ain’t give you no patients.” And I’d laugh  but she meant that thing. She meant stop giving CPR to relationships that been dead since the Saints last winning season. Stop trying to revive what’s not meant to live. Stop watering dirt hoping it’ll turn into a garden.

You can’t heal everybody.

And you ain’t supposed to.

You are the healer of you nobody else.

Once you understand that, you move different. You speak different. You love different. You stop letting people weaponize your compassion. You stop confusing loyalty with self-sacrifice. You stop drowning so other people can breathe.

You start saying “no” and meaning it.

You start choosing peace over chaos.

You start choosing yourself without guilt.

You start walking in the kind of self-worth that don’t need applause.

And that’s when life begins to shift slowly, quietly, beautifully. That’s when the sunlight slips through the curtains you finally opened. That’s when your heart starts beating without fear. That’s when the love you were searching for shows up not from outside, but from within.

And everything that comes after that? Honey, that’s overflow.

When you love yourself, you stop accepting discounts from people who should’ve been paying full price for your presence. You stop letting the world tell you who you are. You stop chasing after affection wrapped in convenience. You stop pouring yourself into broken vessels that can’t hold a teaspoon of love, let alone the ocean of compassion you carry.

You realize your love is sacred.

Your spirit is sacred.

Your heart is sacred.

And once you learn that really learn it  nobody can make you feel unworthy again.

The truth is, real wealth ain’t in dollars. It ain’t in cars. It ain’t in houses. It ain’t in status. Real wealth is knowing you ain’t for sale. Real wealth is living in a way that reflects God’s compassion. Real wealth is loving people without losing yourself. Real wealth is recognizing the divine inside you  the part of you that was created on purpose, with purpose.

Love the real kind  transforms your soul. But only when you give it without losing yourself to it.

That’s what Granny was trying to teach me on that porch in ’93. That love true love  is like gumbo: it takes time, patience, the right ingredients, and it sure as hell can’t be rushed. But if you start with the wrong base if you don’t love yourself first the whole pot tastes off.

It’s been decades since Granny sat in that swing, telling me things I wasn’t ready to hear. Decades since I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath. Decades since the “wah-wah-wahhh” of my teenage irritation covered her wisdom.

But now?

Now her words echo clearer than church bells on Sunday.

Because the truth she carried  the truth she tried to pour into me  is the same truth I offer to you:

You are worthy of a love that doesn’t hurt.

You are worthy of a love that doesn’t ask you to shrink.

You are worthy of a love that doesn’t depend on conditions.

You are worthy of a love that begins with you.

Start there.

Start with you.

Because once you learn how to love yourself deeply, truly, fully you’ll never again settle for anything less than what God intended.

And baby… Granny was right.

She wasn’t crazy after all.

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