TheraFace Mask: The $499 Mirror That Taught Me How to Say "Yes"

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The Arrival

The box arrived the same week my dermatologist said “stress-induced rosacea” and my therapist said “boundaries.”

I unboxed it like a relic: sleek, medical-grade silicone, blinking LEDs in clinical blue and red. The instructions promised “visible results in 3 weeks.” I needed results in 3 minutes.

First Use (Or, How to Lie Down Without Thinking)

Strapping it on felt like surrendering to a robot overlord. The cooling gel pads stuck to my cheeks, the red light humming like a spaceship’s engine. “Relax for 10 minutes,” the app commanded.

I lasted 37 seconds before reaching for my phone.

The mask beeped reproachfully.

The Ritual That Became Rehab

- Monday: Used it while my ex’s voicemail played. The LEDs pulsed in time to his excuses.

- Wednesday: Fell asleep in it. Woke up looking like a confused astronaut.

- Friday: Let my roommate try it. “Feels like a cyborg hug,” she said.

Slowly, the mask became my “yes” trainer:

- “Should I cancel the date?” The mask’s timer counted down: No.

- “Delete his number?” Red light glow: Not yet.

- “Eat the fucking cake?” Blue light strobe: Obviously.

The Science of Sitting Still

Therabody claims it stimulates collagen. I say it stimulated surrender.

For 10 minutes a day, I had to:

1. Stop moving.

2. Stop fixing.

3. Stop picking at my skin (literal and metaphorical).

The mask didn’t care about my to-do list. It only cared that I stayed put while it did its work.

The Glow Up

My skin cleared. But the real shift was in the mirror after unmasking—less “Did it work?” and more “Oh. There you are.”

The Accident

I wore it during a Zoom call, forgetting the LEDs were visible.

“Are you… undergoing facial dialysis?” my boss asked.

“Self-care,” I said, leaving the meeting before he could reply.

The Letting Go

I loaned it to my mother. “Too futuristic,” she clucked.

Two weeks later, she texted: “Do you recharge this or…”

Progress.

The Truth in the Light

The TheraFace Mask didn’t give me perfect skin. It gave me permission:

To sit.

To pause.

To let something else take over for once.

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