"She Used to Be Mine" is one of those songs that feels as if it looks you in the eye and reads every emotion you've been hiding. It’s raw, messy, tender—an anthem for those moments when you stand in front of the mirror and barely recognize yourself. There’s a kind of sacredness to that moment of honesty when you admit: I don’t know this person anymore, but I know she’s me.
I think about this song, and it reminds me how much we lose along the way—dreams, innocence, pieces of ourselves. It’s strange, isn’t it? How the world chisels at you? You start out soft, like clay, full of passion and purpose, but little by little, life molds you into something else. “She used to be mine” becomes the refrain of anyone who’s looked back and felt the weight of all those subtle compromises, all the scars buried under the layers you’ve learned to carry just to survive.
It’s like that story in the Bible where Naomi declares, “Don't call me Naomi; call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter” (Ruth 1:20). There’s something universal about that bitterness, the way you can feel like the person you were—the hopeful one, the dreamer, the one who fought for joy—has faded. Like she’s slipped through your fingers because life was too hard, or things didn’t unfold the way you dreamed they would. And yet, Naomi isn’t left desolate. In her story, there’s hope; Ruth stays by her side, and redemption comes slowly, painfully, but certainly. That’s the way life seems to work—we mourn who we lose, even when she is us, but God is still here, whispering quietly underneath the noise: You’re not forgotten.
I sometimes feel like we see this same theme in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Dorian sells his soul chasing beauty and pleasure, only to one day gaze at the portrait that reflects everything he’s lost. The painting becomes a monstrous mirror, just like this song is—exposing all the ways we’ve betrayed ourselves, all the things we’ve suffered silently. I listen to these lyrics, and I feel Dorian’s plea at the end of the novel: “If only I could be that boy I once was.” That longing to turn back time is so human, but life doesn’t give any refunds. What “She Used to Be Mine” reminds me of, though, is how we don’t have to despise the person we are now. Flawed, yes. Imperfect, definitely. But also... still here.
Spiritually, there’s something healing about that realization. I think of Rumi’s poem where he says, “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes around in another form.” Maybe that’s the heart of it all. We grieve who we used to be because we miss the comfort of her simplicity, her pure heart—but maybe, just maybe, the person we’ve become holds a different kind of beauty. A beauty shaped by resilience and pain, love and grief, grace and endurance. God takes the broken pieces and makes mosaics. That’s the kind of miracle a song like this reminds me to believe in.
And look, let me be real with you—it’s okay to cry through this one. You’re supposed to. It’s not just a song about regret; it’s about grace. About forgiving the self you’ve become, imperfect as she is. Like that moment in Jane Eyre when her sense of self-worth is so beaten down, and she finally screams, “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.” That’s what this song calls us to remember. Even when we’re clawing our way back to the person we want to be, there’s beauty in the fight.
“She Used to Be Mine” doesn’t promise easy answers. It doesn’t sugarcoat the loss of innocence, the ache of being an older, wearier version of yourself. But it reminds us to honor the scarred, messy woman still standing in the mirror. Because maybe she isn’t who you wanted to be. But she’s who survived.
You are a divine creator for His kingdom is within you. Read the book at Shownd.com