Why I didn't look in a mirror for a year (even on my wedding day): In a unique experiment, how one woman who hated her body finally found the secret of self-acceptance

How often do you look in the mirror? Once a day before you leave the house? Maybe again in the afternoon to touch up your make-up?
Well, I used to do it constantly, sometimes once an hour. I’d gravitate towards my reflection without thinking. I’d glance in every mirror, every shop window, even the occasional piece of well-polished cutlery.
Of course, some vanity was involved, but generally I used mirrors to reassure myself that my flaws weren’t as obvious to everyone else as they were to me. I hated my stomach and the muffin top that would pop over my jeans. I despised my double chin and crow’s feet. 

Kjerstin Gruys used mirrors to reassure herself that her flaws weren't as obvious to everyone else as they were to her

This was obviously not a healthy way to think — and it got worse as I started to plan my wedding at the beginning of 2011.
The problem is that getting married requires a dress, and buying one requires countless fittings and more time spent in front of a full-length mirror than is healthy.
Most people buy one wedding dress: I bought four. The first was an elegant silk number with a dramatic pleated taffeta train. I loved it. But every time I tried it on, I became more insecure. I could see the doughnut of flesh around my middle. I knew I could remedy it by skipping puddings and wearing control knickers on the big day — but still it made me panic.

What’s wrong with me? I wondered. Why am I feeling so anxious about my looks when I should be feeling at my most beautiful?
It brought back painful memories of my late teens and early 20s, when I had struggled with anorexia.
At 16, I started skipping lunch in an effort to lose a few pounds. Being admired for my skinniness felt good: like most teenage girls, I craved approval. 
A vague attempt to get rid of a bit of puppy fat somehow turned into a starvation diet. I became obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow — she was my ‘thinspiration’, as anorexics call their weight role models. I filled my diary with photos of her.

At 16, I started skipping lunch in an effort to lose a few pounds. Being admired for my skinniness felt good: like most teenage girls, I craved approval

But my quest to be skinny was to prove catastrophic. As the pounds dropped off, I was increasingly miserable and unwell. I found myself hospitalised with kidney stones several times, and discovered my bones had weakened so much I was diagnosed with osteopenia — a precursor to osteoporosis.
Recovery was long and tough — it was ten years before I felt free from the disorder. I recovered only thanks to a lot of therapy and the love and unwavering support of my family. 
The experience changed my outlook on life. At 23, I gave up a career as a fashion buyer because it felt wrong to work in an industry known for glorifying emaciation. I studied for a sociology PHD at the University of California in Los Angeles and lectured in schools on the dangers of eating disorders.
I also volunteered at a charity, About-Face, which works to improve girls’ body image.
But I was still struggling to accept my own body. Aged 28, I looked at myself in the too-tight wedding dress and everything felt wrong. I bought three replacements — but none made me feel beautiful.
Of course, the problem wasn’t the dresses, it was me. My teen self seemed to be re-emerging: I couldn’t be loveable if I wasn’t skinny.
In my heart, I knew that my husband-to-be, Michael, a biomedical engineer, would love me whatever my size. I was 5ft 5in and weighed 11st. He found me gorgeous and attractive, and told me so all the time. Yet there I was, just a few months from our wedding, almost willing him to realise he could do better.
Thankfully, I was sane enough to realise I didn’t have a body problem, but a body image problem. I wasn’t starving myself any more, but I was still tortured by my appearance. I also worried incessantly about how other people perceived me. 

In my heart, I knew that my husband-to-be, Michael, a biomedical engineer, would love me whatever my size. He found me gorgeous and attractive, and told me so all the time

Worse, as I became increasingly insecure about my body, I started treating Michael as though he was stupid to find me attractive. I snapped at him. I corrected him when he called me beautiful and, worst of all, I almost always refused to make love if I ‘felt fat’.
Clearly I needed to do something. The idea to avoid mirrors came after reading a novel that talked about how nuns went a lifetime without looking at themselves. I found myself wondering if I could go even one day without looking at myself in a mirror. What about a year?
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If I couldn’t see myself, then might I worry less about how I looked?
I discussed the plan with Michael, who gave me his full support. We hung a curtain in front of the bathroom mirror and covered up the rest of the mirrors in our flat.

The idea to avoid mirrors came after reading a novel that talked about how nuns went a lifetime without looking at themselves

When I told my sister Hanna about my experiment, she asked: ‘What are you going to do about make-up?’
I told her: ‘I’m going to keep wearing it — but probably less. I’ll learn to put it on without looking.’
So I replaced everything that needed to be applied precisely with a product that could be smudged on with my fingers. Anything that couldn’t be adapted, such as eyeliner, I dropped from my routine.
I worked out I should leave my apartment building by the back entrance to avoid the wall of mirrors in the hallway. And if I accidentally walked past a mirror in a bar, I’d train myself to avoid looking in it by pretending my reflection was a person I didn’t want to talk to.

 I’d always been a perfectionist, but during my time without mirrors the need to hold myself to exacting standards seemed to lessen. I cared less about how I looked, reminding myself it was ok to be ‘good enough'

Clothes shopping was a challenge. Realising I couldn’t look in changing room mirrors, Hanna came to my rescue: I would try on the clothes and she would tell me how I looked.
The first few weeks went well, and I experienced several spells of not thinking about my looks at all.
Initially, I was oddly conscious of each step taken and every product used as I put on my make-up and styled my hair blind.
During my walk to work, I would notice mirrors and reflective surfaces everywhere. But gradually I relaxed and got on with what I was doing.
Still, there were tough times. I began experiencing mild paranoia about my weight and the state of my skin.
On A LOGICAL level, I knew my appearance couldn’t have changed dramatically since I’d stopped looking at my reflection — I didn’t struggle to get into my clothes, my skin felt smooth and my hair wasn’t frizzy. Yet I felt lost without mirrors.
A small part of me whispered: ‘Maybe you should go on a diet, just in case.’ I resisted, and instead bought weighing scales. Weighing myself helped calm my fears.

I became obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow - she was my 'thinspiration', as anorexics call their weight role models. I filled my diary with photos of her

Six months into the project, I’d learned a number of things. Just a few months before, I’d felt on the verge of becoming the sort of bridezilla who treated her family and friends horribly in the lead-up to the big day.
Now, since I couldn’t look in the mirror, I’d stopped trying on my wedding dresses and was no longer obsessing about how I’d look on my big day.
I’d started a blog (ayearwithout mirrors.com) about my experiences. While lots of people were amazingly supportive — and many took up the challenge themselves — I was also criticised. Some believed I wasn’t dealing with the root of my insecurities.
But by taking the emphasis away from my physical appearance, I was able to devote more emotional energy to the good things in my life.
My body image had also subtly improved. I didn’t expect to reverse a 15-year issue in just a few months and, as is true for most women, my relationship with my body remained complex and I still dwelt on my ‘flaws’.
I’d always been a perfectionist, but during my time without mirrors the need to hold myself to exacting standards seemed to lessen. I cared less about how I looked, reminding myself it was ok to be ‘good enough’.
In October 2011, my wedding day finally arrived. We held it in a small winery in Woodside, California, and I had my hair put up and my make-up applied without looking in a mirror.
I changed in the bathroom, pain-stakingly avoiding looking at myself as my bridesmaids helped lift the dress over my head.
Hanna zipped me up, and held me steady as I stepped into my high heels. I heard the clicking of a camera and looked up with a smile.
‘How do I look?’ I asked the group.
‘How do you think you look?’ asked my bridesmaid Laila.
‘I think I look great!’ I smiled. And I did. As I stood among my closest friends, I felt how I’d always hoped I would on my wedding day: confident, feminine, glamorous, and — most importantly — loved.
As I walked down the aisle, I could see my loved ones smiling back at me with support and encouragement.
And then I was standing in front of Michael. I smiled at him. ‘You are so beautiful!’ he whispered. In that moment, something became clear: if I felt beautiful, I was.

I'd always been a perfectionist, but during my time without mirrors the need to hold myself to exacting standards seemed to lessen

I didn’t look in the mirror all day, and I was proud of myself. It was the easiest day without mirrors I’d had. Did I believe I looked perfect? No. I believed I looked good enough — and that was exactly how I wanted to feel.
My experiment came to an end five months after my wedding. When it was finally time to look at myself again, I threw a party for all my friends and family. They covered a full-length mirror with post-it notes and stood around me as I peeled them off one by one.
The first time I saw myself, I was overwhelmed. It was like seeing an old friend again. I couldn’t believe how healthy I looked and how much happier I appeared.
Today, a year after my experiment, when I look in the mirror I see a happy and energetic woman. Instead of worrying about how I look all the time, I’ve learned to just enjoy my life.

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