How Getting Dressed Turned a Love Letter to Myself

“Model is a option to say who you’re with out having to talk.” ~Rachel Zoe

I didn’t got down to discover myself.

I simply appeared within the mirror sooner or later and thought, “Wait, when did I cease wanting like me?”

It was after a breakup—the sort that leaves you foggy, emotionally threadbare, making an attempt to make sense of the place you misplaced your self.

There I used to be, standing in my bed room, carrying one thing useful, outdoorsy, and… fully not me.

Not that there’s something unsuitable with cargo pants and fleece. If that’s your type, it’s lovely.

However I’m a girl who grew up in Paris… who loves texture, form, and coloration… who used to put on lipstick to the grocery retailer simply because it made her really feel fancy.

And I couldn’t bear in mind the final time I’d wearing a means that made me really feel alive.

That second wasn’t dramatic. Nevertheless it caught—like a pebble in my shoe, a quiet consciousness I couldn’t unfeel.

I didn’t know what to do with it at first. So I simply began noticing. What I wore. What I reached for. What I missed.

What felt like one tiny step nearer to me—and what felt like somebody (anybody) else.

And slowly, with out which means to, I began discovering my means again.

Not by journaling. Not by remedy. Via type.

I didn’t understand it then, however I used to be beginning to come residence to myself—one outfit at a time.

I’ve at all times felt like a cultural mosaic—superbly complicated in principle, however exhausting to carry in a single piece.

Indian by heritage. East African household roots. Raised throughout 4 international locations. A mixture of accents, traditions, languages, and methods of seeing the world.

And for a very long time, I wasn’t positive who I used to be purported to be in the midst of all that.

In some circles, I used to be too Western. In others, I felt too brown, too “different.” Even inside my very own group, I typically sensed I used to be too completely different… not conventional sufficient.

I grew to become expert at shape-shifting—mixing in the place I may, firming down what felt inconvenient. Quietly amassing contradictions I didn’t know the way to resolve.

I attempted, in fact. I learn the books. Took the workshops. Employed the coaches. I journaled and meditated and therapized and “mantra-ed” myself half to dying. I even grew to become a coach.

Most of it helped, in its personal means.

However the strangest, most trustworthy sort of therapeutic didn’t occur in a training session or on a yoga mat. It occurred in my closet.

It began quietly. One night time, I discovered myself choosing out an outfit for the following day… To not impress. To not curate a glance. Simply to really feel a bit of extra like myself. And for some cause, that felt good. Mild. Reassuring.

So I did it once more the following night time. And the following.

Finally, it grew to become a ritual. Simply me, slowing down lengthy sufficient to test in with myself.

I began to ask questions like:

What components of me wish to present up tomorrow?
What feeling do I wish to carry into the day?
Which items make me really feel alive?

Then I might select garments that mirrored no matter solutions got here by.

Typically that meant daring coloration and structured traces—one thing that stated, I’m right here, and I’m not hiding.

Typically it meant mushy, draping materials—one thing that allow me exhale.

Typically it meant a mixture of issues that didn’t “go” however in some way felt just like the truest model of me.

Like I used to be letting the paradoxes stay on my physique as a substitute of simply in my head.

And in doing that—in truly carrying my contradictions, wrapping them in silk and denim and thread—I started to make peace with them. And I started to cease seeing them as flaws to elucidate away or disguise and begin seeing them as richness. Texture. Proof of a life deeply lived.

As an alternative of making an attempt to resolve the strain, I let it’s lovely. I let it belong. And unusually, that softened one thing in me.

The disgrace that after whispered, “Decide a facet, be clearer, be much less complicated” quieted.

I started to belief that I may maintain multitudes—and nonetheless be complete.

Within the morning, once I’d slip into these garments, it wasn’t nearly getting dressed. It was an act of permitting. Permitting myself to be seen. To take up area. To be complicated, contradictory, and nonetheless worthy of magnificence. A quiet sure to the fullness of who I’m—who I’ve at all times been.

What stunned me most was how I began to really feel.

How may one thing exterior—one thing as seemingly superficial as clothes—give me the elusive confidence I’d spent years chasing on the within?

Perhaps it wasn’t in regards to the garments in any respect. Perhaps it was about permission.

To be seen. To really feel lovely by myself phrases. To inform the reality of who I’m—not with phrases, however with cloth and coloration and silhouette.

Perhaps it was about giving my physique an opportunity to talk… and studying the way to hear.

Each night, I nonetheless take a couple of quiet minutes to select what I’ll put on the following day. Not as a result of I’m making an attempt to venture one thing. However as a result of it helps me connect with one thing.

It’s one of many solely components of my day that feels fully mine—not rushed, not reactive. A mushy pause. A second to land.

Clothes has turn into a sort of mirror. And that second of dressing has turn into a type of meditation. Not the sitting-still variety. The remembering variety. The reconnecting variety.

I believed I used to be simply taking part in with materials and silhouettes. However I used to be truly coming residence to myself—piece by piece.

Listening to what felt good. Letting go of what didn’t. Making area for a number of components of me to coexist.

That’s the factor I by no means anticipated: one thing as extraordinary as selecting an outfit—one thing all of us should do anyway—can turn into a love letter to your self. For those who let it.