HOW PEOPLE AVOID MIRROR REFLECTIONS WHEN THEY’RE UPSET

— When facing ourselves feels harder than facing the world.

There are moments when the last thing we want is to see ourselves.

Not in a poetic way. Not even in a metaphorical way. Literally—we avoid mirrors.

After a fight. After crying in a locked room. After hearing something that stings and pretending it didn’t. That walk to the bathroom, that brief glance at the mirror—we skip it. Eyes down. Head turned. As if our own reflection is too much to handle.

Because we know what it will show. Not just our face, but the aftershocks. The red-rimmed eyes. The quiver we tried to bury. The expression we’ve worked so hard to mask in front of others. The mirror catches it all, uncensored.

And in that moment, it’s not about vanity. It’s about vulnerability.

To look into a mirror when we’re upset is to confront the rawest version of ourselves—the one we spend all day hiding from others. It’s like suddenly being on the outside, seeing yourself as someone else might. And that can be unbearable. Because maybe the pain looks too obvious. Maybe the sadness is showing. Or maybe, worst of all, we see nothing—no tears, no visible wound—and we realize how invisible our hurt might be to the world.

So we avoid it.

In Nepali households, mirrors are everywhere but often incidental. A small round one near the window. A metal plate held up briefly to tie a bun. A square one nailed near the door, used mostly to adjust tika or straighten a shawl. Rarely do we stand in front of them just to look at ourselves. That kind of introspection—literal or emotional—isn’t part of our daily rhythm. Especially during distress, we are taught to compose, not to confront.

A mother wipes her tears in the kitchen, never pausing by the mirror next to the spice rack. A student walks home after a terrible exam, choosing to wash their face in the sink without ever meeting their own eyes. A man in a pressed shirt goes to a family gathering with something heavy in his chest—he checks his hair, but not his expression.

There’s almost a quiet superstition to it: that if we don’t look, the feelings might not fully exist.

But the mirror waits. Not to judge, but simply to reflect. And maybe that’s what scares us most—its neutrality. The fact that it doesn’t lie. It doesn’t console. It doesn’t soften what’s there. It just shows.

And yet, sometimes, it’s what we need. After the wave has passed. After the breath has steadied. After the door has closed and silence returns. To look—to really look—can be a form of return. A way to say: You’re still here. You made it through. Even this.

But until then, we avert our gaze. We turn our head. Not out of shame, but out of self-preservation. Because some truths take time to face. Even when they’re our own.

Especially when they’re our own.