grieving our past selves
How much of your closet is for your current self? How much of it is for a past self?
If you're new here, I send a newsletter about the ways society makes it hard to simply put clothes on our body every Tuesday and post a discussion thread every Thursday. If you’re a regular here, you’ll know this post should have gone out tomorrow, but real talk, I hit the publish button by accident. Enjoy! 😂
On last week’s post about guilt, a conversation began in the comment section about the grief of letting go of the clothes that no longer fit (participating in these comment threads are one of the best perks of being a paid subscriber!)
One commenter posted:
A year ago I got rid of (ashamed to say how many) boxes of clothes that no longer fit. It took me years to work up to the reality that they were unlikely to ever fit again. Many of them were handmade and were really "me" in a way nothing off the rack could ever be. And they represented old selves that faded or that never really came to be (clothes for presentations, for being professional, for going out... none of which I do much of any more). Working through the grief is tough. Would love to read what you have to say about this.
This is something that comes up for almost everyone when they are weeding out the articles of clothing that no longer serve them. You might intellectually know that you don’t use or need something any more, but you aren’t quite ready to part with it. And despite how common it is, we don’t acknowledge that we need to go through a grieving process before we can let go of clothes that don’t fit, or buy new ones that do.
The grief could be about mourning the body you once had. It could be about the fact that you never had the body the world told you you needed to have. It could be about the actual articles of clothing you loved that you’re sad you will no longer get to wear. It could be about mourning a life you once had, and the clothes that were the wardrobe for that life, when your current life requires a very different wardrobe. It could be that you’re mourning what your body can no longer do and the clothes required for those activities. You’re grieving your past selves.
Here are a few ideas that might help you in this grieving process.
Share your story. It’s considered a little weird to talk about the emotional aspects of getting dressed (one of the reasons I think my group program is so special), but there is comfort in sharing. Tell someone the story of what happened while you wore those clothes, how you felt in them, or what they meant to you. You can do it here in the comments if you like.
Thank them. Not everything in your life has to spark joy, but this is one of the concepts from Marie Kondo that I find really useful. Acknowledge the garment out loud and how it served you (i.e. “sweater, thank you for being my go-to winter date night look for my late twenties.” Yes, I’m serious. Yes, it helps).
Keep them. I don’t believe in arbitrary rules about when you have to get rid of things. If you have items that have sentimental meaning to you, and you have space, keep them. But only the really special ones, and keep them stored out of the way so that you don’t feel bad about the fact that they no longer fit when you’re trying to get dressed. I have a whole Rubbermaid tub of clothing in my basement that serves no purpose except that it has special meaning to me.
Normalize a diversity of bodies and the idea that bodies change. We think our bodies aren’t supposed to change because that’s the message we’ve gotten from magazines, movies, boyfriends, celebrities, and critical parents for years. We need to actively replace those messages with images and stories of bodies changing, and the changes being a natural thing, not a negative one.
Remember that clothes are not timeless.
When we put pressure on ourselves to find clothes that we’ll wear forever, we don’t allow for change. For our bodies to change, for our lifestyles to change, for the environment we live in to change, for our preferences and tastes to change.
And edited to add, inspired by a comment on Instagram: take your time. Pack the items away. Let them sit. Baby steps. This isn’t something to push yourself on. Time really does lessen the blow.
What piece of your wardrobe have you had to grieve?
It took me more than a decade to get rid of professional clothes I owned for a career I lost to disabling chronic illness. That wardrobe wouldn’t have suited me had I been able to return to my work (for many reasons), yet I couldn’t let go off those items because they came to represent my hope that I would recover enough to need them again. When I finally let go, it was at a time when I finally started to practice some measure of acceptance of my life now. It’s not what I planned or wanted, but it is what it is.
For me a lot of the grief is more personal than professional, though professional is a part of it.
I've recently been undergoing my biggest wardrobe shift since graduating college. My figure has changed and I am still in the process of coming to terms with it. I had a closet full of unique handmade garments in brilliant colors that were fitted to my body. I had outfits I felt so good in I didn't want to take them off when I got home. Now I have a set of purchased clothes that cover me enough I can go out in public.
What I am mourning is death of possibility. When I was able to wear clothes that reflected my style I (foolishly, perhaps?) believed that they were a part of what would make me attractive. As I stitched a new dress or set a waistband I would imagine wearing the garment on a date with someone who would eventually, finally, accept my odd, quirky, bright style as a part of the me he wanted to get to know, hang out with, and commit to. That never happened. As I cull the sweetness from my closet I am also laying to rest dreams that will never be. I never met the man for whom quirky handmade was a valuable asset. No-one was ever tempted by my retro prints or precise pintucks to get to know me better. I never had the opportunity to turn my stitching skills towards a layette or overalls for a toddler.
It's too late now, and whatever style I find next won't reflect that excited anxious waiting that is a blessing and torture of being young. It's ok, I'll find something else. But there will still be clothes I'm sad I can't wear.