“One Week Without a Mirror”

One Week Without a Mirror

By.. Iftikhar Habib

It started with a challenge.

I was scrolling mindlessly through social media when I came across a post that said: “Spend a week without mirrors. You’ll see yourself more clearly.” I scoffed, but something about the idea lingered. Maybe it was the timing—I'd just spent the better part of an hour analyzing a selfie I never posted. Or maybe I was tired of being so aware of my reflection that it felt like I was living in a permanent state of judgment.

So, I decided to do it.

I covered the bathroom mirror with an old bedsheet. I took down the full-length mirror in my bedroom and flipped the one in the hallway to face the wall. Even my makeup compact got tucked away in a drawer. For seven days, I would not see myself—not even a glimpse.

Day 1: Phantom Reflections

The first morning felt disorienting. My hands reached automatically for the mirror, a routine I didn’t realize was so deeply ingrained. I tilted my head as if to check for sleep lines on my face, only to remember the blank wall in front of me.

Brushing my hair without seeing it felt like trying to draw in the dark. I applied moisturizer carefully, guessing where the dry patches were. It was strange, but manageable.

Still, I caught myself leaning toward the darkened window, trying to catch a reflection. My brain, hungry for visual feedback, kept scanning surfaces for validation. For reassurance. For control.

Day 2: Unseen, Unfiltered

Without a mirror, I began noticing how much of my identity was tied to what I looked like. I found myself wondering: Do I look tired? Do I look bloated? Do I look “good enough” today?

But there were no answers. Just feelings. I had to listen to my body, not inspect it. I had to trust the process of getting ready rather than double-checking every detail.

It was unsettling—and freeing.

Day 3: The Selfie Reflex

By midweek, I realized how often I used my phone screen as a mirror. While checking the weather or typing a text, I’d tilt the screen to glance at myself. I didn’t think much of it before. But now, I stopped.

Without the mirror or screen to tell me how I appeared to others, I started to tune in to how I appeared to myself—in my thoughts, my emotions, my actions.

I laughed more that day. Maybe because I wasn’t checking if my laugh made my face wrinkle the wrong way. Maybe because I finally didn’t care.

Day 4: Social Life Without Reflections

When I went out to meet friends, I had a moment of panic. What if I have spinach in my teeth? What if my eyeliner is crooked?

But something surprising happened.

No one noticed anything wrong. Or if they did, they didn’t say. Conversations flowed. My friend Sarah told me she liked my earrings—ones I had picked without looking at myself. I realized people don’t really see us the way we think they do. They remember how we made them feel, not the stray hair or slightly smudged mascara.

Day 5: The Inner Critic is Blind

This was the day the silence settled in.

Without mirrors, my inner critic had fewer weapons. I wasn't evaluating my worth based on how flat my stomach looked or whether my skin was breaking out. I wasn't dissecting every physical detail in search of flaws.

Instead, I noticed other things: the way my legs felt strong walking up the stairs, the warmth in my smile when I passed a neighbor, the way my voice sounded confident in a meeting.

Day 6: The Unexpected Mirror

I caught a reflection in a car window. It was blurry, distorted, not enough to make out details—but enough to remind me that I still existed physically. My first instinct was to examine, to judge.

But I stopped myself.

That shape in the reflection? That was me. And whether or not I could critique it, it was mine. It was housing a person who had started to look inward. Who was learning to be present without approval.

Day 7: Seeing Without Seeing

By the final day, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: peace.

I dressed for comfort, not for aesthetics. I ate when I was hungry, not when I thought I “should.” I looked at others in the eye, not through the lens of comparison.

In losing sight of my face, I gained sight of my spirit.

Afterward

When I finally removed the bedsheet from the bathroom mirror, I hesitated. There I was. The same person—but different.

I smiled.

Not to check how it looked.

Not to see if it was pretty.

But because it felt good.

And that, I think, is how we’re meant to live.