Seven Days Without a Mirror

Every morning and night, I pray to my reflection.

I move through my day in intervals of mirrors. My LED mirror gets thirty minutes in the morning. The Matherly Hall women’s bathroom gets ten in the afternoon. My front-facing camera takes another twenty, cumulatively. And my body mirror has, at this point, years of my life.

I’ve lived this way for as long as I can remember, highly observant of every pore, misplaced hair, and the exact placement of each mole. I know my face better as an object than as something that belongs to me.

And then, one morning, on my fifth pass over my face, picking tools from TEMU in hand, I felt sick. Not dramatically, just suddenly aware of the show I’ve turned my life into. The nauseating amount of time I’ve sacrificed for my appearance. Hours lost to blow dryers and eyelash curlers, to the constant checking and adjusting of myself. I was running late again, 45 minutes this time, waiting for my skin to calm down after I’d picked at it until there was nothing left to fix.

So, I stopped.

For seven days, I gave up my face entirely. No mirrors, no pictures of myself, no reflections, no glances in passing windows, zero reassurances.

There were many logistical questions about the experiment:

Will you just not wear makeup? My God, no. My hands still shook as I faced the wall, curling my eyelashes, blowing out my hair. I could block my reflection, but I wasn’t willing to give up the routine.

What about public bathrooms?Head down, in and out. This was one of the harder parts; it felt so belittling. Looking at the ground felt like hiding.

Laptop screens? Store windows? If I caught myself, I shut my eyes and moved on quickly enough to forget what I’d seen.

Car mirrors? Driving? I tilted the rearview mirror upward. Not very smart, but serious.

I’m embarrassed to say that this was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And I cheated. Almost every day. But I’m proud to say that a week without vanity completely changed the way I carry myself.

Here’s what it looked like.

Day 1

I’m scared

Saturday at 5 p.m., I took away my own face privileges.

The logistics of a vain girl covering eight mirrors became complicated. My room turned into a Trader Joe’s shrine. I doubt that’s what they had in mind for their brand.

Image Courtesy of Francesca Jaques

The ordeal hadn’t become shocking yet. It felt temporary, like getting ready at a friend’s house and feeling too uncomfortable to ask for mirror time.

That night, I was going to a frat party: Pike Hawaiian. Despite the name, it had nothing to do with Hawaii and nothing to do with boys. Within two hours, I’d be standing among a hundred beautiful women in micro-bikinis. So my body would be part of the display, even if I couldn’t look at it.

I got ready in nineteen minutes—outfit, hair, makeup. It exposed something I’d been avoiding: my routine was never really getting ready; it was staring at myself.

On the way to the party, I realized I actually felt good.

Usually, nights like this dissolve into documentation, with the photos, the angles, and the solemn dissatisfaction that follows, no matter what it shows.

I missed the selfies and the drunken bathroom reapplication of lip liner, but I missed myself most of all.

Looking back, I notice my hair wasn’t blown out properly, but I also notice how happy I look.

Image Courtesy of Francesca Jaques

Day 2

GET ME OUT OF HERE

I didn’t push myself on Day 2. It was slow and deliberately so.

My bangs became their own problem, more high-maintenance than I’d expected. Sometimes my bangs make me feel like I’m being held hostage by my own forehead. I remember wanting to scream, ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE!’

I caught my reflection in the treadmill screen that day, in that thoughtless, slightly dizzy state during cardio. I found myself studying my face without meaning to, sensing something was off. It took a few seconds to remember I wasn’t supposed to be looking.

It was cheating. But I was surprised by how unfamiliar I felt to myself, how unsure I was of what I looked like. Something about that felt like it was doing what it needed to.

Day 3

‘Is my mole on the left or right side of my face? Wait, your left or mine?’

Withdrawals. I needed to see myself. I needed to scratch my own face just to confirm it was still there.

I couldn’t picture it clearly anymore. The mole, my freckles, the tone of my skin. Was I pale? Was everything still where I thought it was?

I wore sweatpants to class. I haven’t done that since strep throat freshman fall.

I kept touching my face. Constantly. As if I could map it back together.

I sat in Library West for five hours and thirteen minutes. Bathroom break. Head down.

I was productive. And completely miserable.

Day 3’s Close Friends Story. Image Courtesy of Francesca Jaques. I’d hope.

Day 4

I stared at a girl for way too long

Something really awful and slightly frightening happened on Day 4.

By this point, I had cheated five or six times—never for more than a second, and only once intentionally. Every time, I felt a sharp sense of shame afterward, like I couldn’t follow through on one simple thing I had set my mind to.

The restriction of not looking at my own face started to surface in a strange way. As the escalator in Library West carried me up, I caught the eye of a pale brunette girl in yellow. I fixated on her face. The space between her eyes, the sharpness of her nose, the way her expression sat on her features. I can’t remember the last time I looked at someone that closely. I wasn’t admiring her or recognizing her. I was just staring at her like a face.

After holding eye contact for a few seconds, I ripped my eyes away and felt a rush of shame. It didn’t make sense, but it felt like if I couldn’t look at my own face, I couldn’t look at anyone else’s.

I was honestly disturbed by my reaction. My face had always been the reference point. Without it, everything else felt slightly distorted, like I had nothing to measure against.

What was happening to my brain?

Day 5

Are you taking pictures of me?

I missed myself, but I was starting to get over it.

I caught my reflection in the Strike Magazine Zoom self-view and immediately turned it off. I didn’t feel fascinated or unsettled—just obedient, like I was following a rule.

At one point, I became convinced a girl was taking photos of me. I had missed my own face so much that I started to believe other people were paying attention to it for me. Pathetic. Maybe just attention-seeking.

Day 5 felt manageable. Maybe even preferable. I got ready for dinner in thirty seconds. That alone felt rewarding.

I miss you.

Image Courtesy of Francesca Jaques

Day 6

Woodser

Days 2 through 5 were difficult, but highly contained. I moved through them quietly in restaurants, Library West, and small spaces where I could keep the experiment to myself.

Day 6 took that away.

It was the St. Patrick’s Day Woodser—UF’s favorite tradition. Bussed out into the woods with a hundred other people to drink and dance until 1 a.m.

I had been looking forward to it for three months. There was a pregame to the pregame. And for the first time since I started, I really wanted to look beautiful.

Image Courtesy of Francesca Jaques.

At Woodser, people kept taking photos of me (probably because I was running around with my shirt over my head). Normally, I would’ve asked to see every single one right away and shouted, *‘Why didn’t anyone tell me I looked like that?’*

I used to think taking selfies, making videos, and checking myself was part of having fun with my friends. I still understand the value of taking photos with your best friends, but I was having way more fun without the anxiety. It didn’t feel like I was missing anything.

Day 7

last day

On the last day, I was scared to see myself. I’d gone so long without looking that I didn’t really remember my face. Part of me wanted to keep going, just to avoid that moment.

I hadn’t felt particularly pretty all week, but that wasn’t really the point anymore. I felt more purposeful than anything else. I had gotten a lot done. I had spent less time thinking about myself.

The first couple of days, I couldn’t stop wondering what I looked like. By Day 7, that question had mostly faded. Still, I counted down to 5 p.m., waiting to rip everything down.

5 p.m.

I ripped my Trader Joe’s bags off the mirrors and prayed I’d like my face.

If I were going to spend seven days without my reflection, the reveal had to feel dramatic. I put on a sad song and opened my eyes all at once.

I counted down—three, two, one—and looked, only to come face to face with my mother.

Years of English classes could never have prepared me to describe the feeling of seeing my own face and not recognizing it.

My mother and I are not close. I’ve always been irritated when people say I look like her. Until I saw it myself. It wasn’t just a resemblance. It was exact. The shape of my features, the way my expression sat on my face. It all felt like hers. I was looking at something inherited, not something that belonged to me.

Like any deeply disturbed girl, I opened a note:

I had never noticed my jaw before. I ran my fingertips along it, tracing the bones that held my face together. It felt obsessive. I was obsessed.

With tears in my eyes, I smiled at my reflection—my jawline, the unibrow that had grown in, the unblended contour from that morning, my frizzy hair—and felt, for a moment, entirely new. Undeniably beautiful.

Two weeks later, I still hesitate around mirrors. I now spend about half the time I used to, because no one noticed when I stopped looking.

A month later, my face still feels slightly unfamiliar. Some habits have returned, like picking and running late, but something about the way I see myself has become less aggressive.

I’m still not at peace with the image of my mother. Writing it down makes me uneasy. Resemblance in appearance is not resemblance in personhood, but it doesn’t always feel that way.

I feel unknown and beautiful. It’s strange how much easier it is to be gentle with someone else’s face.

Strike Out,

Writer: Francesca Jaques

Editor: Olivia Evans

Francesca Jaques is an editorial director for Strike Magazine GNV. She hopes to one day do exactly what she says she will. She also hopes to meet Lena Dunham.

IG: francescajaques13, email: tutijaques@gmail.com