I cleaned out my closet...
on asking questions, letting go, and finding my personal style at 38
I cleaned out my closet.
Or rather, I’ve been cleaning out my closet for about a year now. I’ll pull out a pink cotton gauze sundress or a pair of high-waisted paper bag pants, fold them, and tuck them into a plastic tote I keep in my closet.
Sometimes, when I am late and can’t put together an outfit, I have NOTHING to wear! alarm bells go off, and I’ll rummage through the tote like it’s a store where everything is free.
Yet there’s nothing in the tote that feels like me.
Those clothes are in there for a reason.
You see, I’ve been trying on different clothes—a rather expensive habit, really—for most of my life.
When I was in my early twenties, I had a closetful of clothes from the mall: cunning little tops with daring necklines, rows of high heels, sleek minidresses, and ever so many scarves that didn’t do much to keep my neck warm (what can I say, it was the early 2000s).
And then I got married when I was too young and was trying to be the kind of woman I had been raised to be. I married a boy who’d also grown up in the church. We thought we were lost because we hadn’t been tight with God. After all, that’s all we’d known.
Neither of us knew we could be lost because we weren’t tight with ourselves.
My new husband didn’t like my low-cut tops, tiny dresses, and three-and-a-half-inch heels—good Christian women didn’t wear such things. And anyway, he wanted me to be rock and roll—like him.
We got into many arguments about my closet.
And whether or not I could drink a martini.
Tired of arguing, I sold all of my beautiful clothes.
I wore what he wanted me to wear—layered T-shirts, skinny jeans, slip-on shoes. I teased and straightened my short, spiky bob.
I still think about some of the clothes I sold at a yard sale for a fraction of the cost I’d paid—a sweet burgundy floral top with an empire waist and wide V-neck that made me feel so beautiful, the thin leather necklace with silver coins, a pair of low-cut jeans that hugged my hips, the turquoise beaded teardrop earrings, the navy blue silk wrap top I wore at Christmastime, that gorgeous aubergine wrap dress with the full flowy skirt.
Not everything in my closet back then was me, but those pieces—the ones I regret letting go of—were.
I’ve been thinking about those pieces a lot lately—styles have changed so much in the last eighteen years, but what about those that felt like me? When I slipped into that soft cotton top, those low-cut jeans, and the strappy leather-heeled sandals and met my friends at the Irish bar for a drink after classes, what elements felt good—and how do I find those elements in clothing now?
I’m thirty-eight years old, and a lot has changed since the early 2000s. I’ve changed. I’m no longer a little twig of a person, for one—I’ve birthed a child, breastfed, and aged. My belly has always been rounded, but now it’s . . . well, more rounded. And don’t even get me started on the impossibility of finding pants that fit when your belly is round and your legs are still quite, well . . . stick-like (thanks, Dad).
Finding my style now feels harder than ever.
I wonder, had I not married so young and had my twenties to explore and be me, how my style might have morphed and changed and grown along with me.
As a child and adolescent, I didn't choose my clothes. I got hand-me-downs from my older cousin who lived in Japan, or my mother purchased me things from Walmart. I had clothes, but they just came to me—rarely did I get to choose them.
When I began dating, starved for love and desperate to receive affection at any cost, I changed my personality to match the boys who liked me—and with it, my wardrobe: plaid miniskirts and sweetheart tees for the All-American who was going to West Point, heavy eyeliner, blue-streaked hair, and black pants that could have doubled as a tent for the Goth, band shirts, jeans, and Etnies for the straight edge soft-punk, sexy tops and heels for the grad student I began dating the summer after high school.
Perhaps it’s not surprising that I’m still trying to figure out my style—after all, I didn’t know who I was growing up or as a young adult.
When I got out of my first marriage, I was 65 pounds heavier than when I’d donned a wedding dress and walked down the aisle on my father’s arm (wearing a lovely dress, yes, but one I chose thinking about what the man at the end of the aisle would want me in).
Suddenly, I was a single mom. I wasn’t thinking much about what to wear, but how to survive and provide and fill my child’s life with love and joy.
I worked hard and slowly started to find parts of myself I lost in that marriage and lost the weight to boot—and then found parts of myself I’d never known before.
I came out as a lesbian.
I was in a great relationship—with the woman I’d later marry. Unlike everyone else I’d ever been with, I didn’t feel like I had to change anything about myself to be loved. She loved me, as I was.
But I couldn’t figure out what to wear. Again.
I didn’t know very many lesbians—and those I did know were quite butch or masc, though I didn’t know the terminology at the time.
Was I supposed to dress like them?
How would people know if I was gay if I kept wearing my vintage navy blue silk dress with the statement necklace (it’s now 2012, my friends), or my favorite lacy top with the three-quarter sleeves (and maybe a statement necklace)?
So I bought some hoodies and on my 27th birthday, I wore a tie with a button-down. My hair was already cropped short—on a whim, I’d chopped off seventeen inches of hair after leaving my marriage.
Fast forward a few years—I’m on Instagram, and there are young hipsters all over my feed, going to cool-looking conferences (which I couldn’t afford) for photographers (which I was), taking photos of each other in epic locations, and wearing Free People (which I also couldn’t afford). Was I supposed to be that?
We were the same age, but I was at home with a toddler in the Bible Belt and my floundering photography business was hemorrhaging money.
So I tried to replicate their effortless style at Goodwill and TJ Maxx, always missing the mark.
I was the opposite of effortless.
One morning, a few months after closing my photography business and letting go of trying to be like my peers on Instagram, I decided to sell everything I owned, buy a bus, and live on the road full-time.
And for the first time in my life, I was doing something for ME.
I knew it was for me because I was not looking for other people to tell me how to do it. I knew it was for me because I was giving it all of my energy and time. I knew it was for me because I felt like if I didn’t do it, I was going to die. I wouldn’t make it (because we’re not even talking about the deep depression and endless spiral of anxiety that plagued my daily life back then). I knew it was for me because it had nothing to do with anyone else, even if parts of it would later become for other people.
On the road, I felt so free. I was dirty, my hair in knots. All of my clothes hung on me a bit or a lot. I didn’t care. I hadn’t stopped moving my body for a year and a half and I skipped breakfast and lunch to save money for traveling. I learned to renovate a vintage Airstream trailer, which meant I learned how to run electrical and how to use a table saw and router and drill and a whole host of other things.
I wore simple things—I had two pairs of jeans, one blue, and one black. I had one pair of leggings and one pair of soft drawstring pants with a colorful print. I wore the same burgundy cotton top I bought on mega-sale at the Gap every day for two weeks, and it got pretty gross. I felt more like myself than ever before.
But it’s easier on the road. No one looks at me every day, and my wife thinks I’m beautiful in a T-shirt. I dressed for comfort and ease. I felt at ease in my body, my clothes, my life.
Let’s be honest, Ellen would be happy if I was naked every day, and I was naked on the road a lot—I bathed in rivers. I’d never done that before.
When my life on the road was over, we were in a global pandemic, and we were finally making good money for the first time in our relationship.
I’d never had disposable income as an adult.
So I started buying clothes—like many of us did in 2020. Maybe we were bored, or they gave us hope that one day we’d see our people again.
I missed (miss) the road and the West so badly I could (can) barely breathe.
I didn’t want to stop traveling.
I didn’t want to move back to the Midwest.
My identity was in crisis—I lost the way of life that made me come alive in more ways than one. I thought, well now I live in a house and have a mortgage and I’m in my mid-thirties, so perhaps I need to look a certain way to match my "normal" life.
Gone are the days of knotted hair and dirty toes and wearing the same shirt day after day.
When shopping, I buy the things I think I’m supposed to like, or what’s sold to me on Instagram, or a combination of the two.
I am 38 years old, and here’s what I’ve learned:
I am neurodivergent and have sensory issues with clothing.
I absolutely loathe high-wasted pants unless they are soft leggings.
I only buy leggings from Girlfriend Collective because they feel good on my skin. I buy the FLOAT leggings because they are lightweight and have the fewest seams/stitches.
I rarely wear bras with clasps or adjustable straps. One thing that stuck from my early lesbian clothing crisis is wearing cozy bras every day. I buy mine from Girlfriend Collective or the tanks from Arq.
I like wearing jumpsuits because they’re one-and-done, but I struggle to find comfy ones that work for my body type. Nothing too structured, but not too loose. Shorter sleeves or sleeveless. I would love to hear your suggestions in the comments!
I do like wearing dresses, though I still struggle to wear them because I’m still figuring out my femme/masc presentation, especially in the Midwest, where the lesbians I know are all masc presenting.
I love a good T-shirt. My favorite tee is hemp, and it’s from Jungmaven.
I have other pairs of shoes but I prefer Birks and Blundstones.
After two years of deliberation, I bought a chore coat and it suits me well.
I love dangly earrings made of beads or silver or turquoise, they make me feel put-together and a little fancy without feeling overdone.
I don’t like button-down tops or blouses, even though I love the idea of them. In reality, they don’t work on my body and make me feel like I’m wearing a costume.
I like simple, tidy outfits with 1-2 layers, but no more—I feel like I’m suffocating.
I love natural materials: hemp, silk, cotton. Synthetic fibers make me itch, curse, sweat in weird places, and like I’m crawling out of my skin.
Buttons and zippers mostly suck, especially if they’re pressed against my skin.
I don’t like looking like a child, but I don’t want to look like a stuffy adult either.
I believe my style is a mix of flowy hippie, nomadic/outdoorsy, and a tiny bit masculine, especially when working out in the studio or yard.
Yet what does that mean?
How do I find clothes that make me feel like me?
Where do I shop?
I’m asking myself these questions, even if it feels silly and trivial.
Though is it?
Is our expression of self through clothing all that silly and trivial, especially as a queer, neurodivergent person?
I’m nearing forty and I’m finally learning that I’ve only been truly comfortable in my clothing (and thus my body) here and there. I’ve touched that comfort, but I’ve not lived it every day.
And yes, styles change. We change.
I’m not the same person I was when I was 22, or even 32. Sometimes, when I let go of a piece of clothing, it’s something I once loved but don’t any longer.
Looking through photos to write this, I can see all the women I’ve ever been.
Yet in many—not all, but many—of the photos, I can still feel my discomfort. I still feel like I was wearing a costume.
Recognizing my neurodivergence and its many sensitivities has been such a gift.
Embracing it has allowed me to notice how deeply my clothing has affected my mood, comfort level, and ability to focus.
Last week, I finally decided to let go of the clothes in the tote—and then I went through my closet and pulled a few more items, some sentimental (like vintage dresses bought on the road), some items I haven’t worn in years, and some I like in theory, but not in reality.
The clothing that holds so many memories—things bought on the road—is sad to let go of. Gauze, cotton, and silk represent the life I thought I’d have.
Yet when someone lovely bought the pretty striped vintage dress I bought at that little vintage shop in Austin off South Congress Ave, I took a small moment to appreciate the dress. I put it on, gave it a twirl, and smiled at myself in the mirror.
And then I folded the dress, along with this perfect stranger’s other purchases, and set it aside to be mailed off to have a new life with her.
Letting go has created a spaciousness—not only in my closet but inside of me.
I feel like I’m creating room to invite more of my current, messy, healing self into my own life.
And now, I can move on.
After a lifetime of trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be, losing bits of self along the way, I can be the person I am now.
A woman finally finding herself.
Even in the clothing I wear.
If you enjoy my writing, consider sharing this post or subscribing to my work.
All posts are free to read, but please do consider a paid subscription if my work resonates with you and you have the means. You can donate monthly or annually.
All paid subscriptions are a donation to the hard work of vulnerability, writing, and sharing.
Leaving a comment, like, or sending an email are other ways of engaging, creating community and connection, and remind me that I’m, you know, not screaming into the void. ;)
Thank you for reading and being here. It means so much to me.
Loved this post. As a recently diagnosed neurodivergent (autistic) woman myself, who grew up in church and also struggles with clothing (and hair, after having recently cut it all of for the first time) I recognized myself in so much of what you wrote here. Thank you for this.
The fact that I’m neurodivergent has been a new discovery, and as a queer woman (who grew up in the church) in a long term relationship with a cis man, my personal style has been in a tailspin this year. Especially since I’m realizing I never really knew what my style was over my 35 years. Just like you, I’ve been masking my whole life. Trying to figure out my masc or femme presentation has been challenging for myself as well. I keep feeling like I need to look like one specific identity but I’m trying to relax and just go with things I know I love - who cares how they look together? It’s a real struggle! Thank you for sharing. Some people seem to be so consistent in their style/identity and I’m wondering if being neurodivergent just adds another layer to it.