Why I Stopped Shaving
I didn’t stop shaving to make a statement. At least, not at first. It started quietly, almost accidentally—missed mornings, tired evenings, a mirror I didn’t feel like negotiating with. Somewhere between rushing through life and learning how to sit still, the razor just… stopped mattering.
Shaving used to feel like discipline. Clean lines. Smooth skin. Control. It was a ritual tied to approval—look acceptable, look sharp, look like you’ve got everything together. But the more I chased that version of myself, the more exhausted I felt. Like I was constantly editing who I was before letting the world see me.
So I paused.
What surprised me wasn’t the stubble or the beard—it was the space that opened up. Time, first of all. A few quiet minutes reclaimed every day. Then honesty. I started recognizing my face again, not the polished version, but the real one. The tired one. The thoughtful one. The one that had lived, stressed, loved, lost, and kept going.
Not shaving became less about appearance and more about permission. Permission to exist without constant correction. Permission to be unfinished. Some days I look rough. Some days I look grounded. Both are true, and both are okay.
People ask if it’s about rebellion or confidence. It’s not rebellion. It’s relief. Confidence didn’t arrive fully formed; it grew slowly, in the acceptance of small imperfections. In choosing comfort over performance. In realizing that masculinity, identity, or self-worth aren’t measured by how closely you follow a routine someone else wrote.
I didn’t stop shaving because I gave up. I stopped because I started listening—to my body, my energy, my pace. To the version of myself that doesn’t need constant polishing to be valid.
Maybe one day I’ll shave again. Maybe I won’t. That’s the point. The choice is mine now, not automatic, not forced.
