“That has to go.”
Four words that hit me like a slap in the face, especially since they were aimed at my beloved gray cardigan – you know, the one I’ve been wearing since my PR days, the one that’s basically held together by hope and nostalgia at this point. Yeah, okay, it has holes. And sure, the elbows are completely shot. And fine, it makes me look like I’ve completely given up on life. But here’s the thing – it’s like wearing a hug. It’s my security blanket in clothing form.
Mia, the professional stylist I’d somehow convinced to come to my house (what was I thinking?), was not having any of my emotional attachment. “It’s literally falling apart,” she said, holding it up to the window where you could practically see through it. “This isn’t clothing anymore. It’s a memory wrapped in disintegrating yarn.”
We were one hour into this closet intervention, and the “get rid of” pile was already embarrassingly huge. I’d pictured this whole thing going differently – maybe she’d reorganize a few things, suggest I donate some old stuff, tell me I had too many black t-shirts. Easy fixes. Instead, I was watching her systematically dismantle my entire wardrobe.
This wasn’t a tune-up. This was a complete demolition.
The whole thing started because my closet had reached crisis levels. I mean, I write about fashion for a living (ironic, right?), but my own wardrobe was like a textile graveyard where good pieces went to die under piles of impulse buys and random PR samples. The closet rod was literally bending from the weight. Something had to give.
Through work connections, I managed to get Mia to help me out. She styles actual celebrities – people you’d recognize from movies and that tech billionaire who always wears the same “casual” outfit that probably costs more than my car. My editor thought it would make good content. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “Plus you can write about it.” The eternal justification for every questionable decision in journalism.
What I didn’t expect was having a complete stranger judge every single clothing choice I’ve made in the past decade. Mia wasn’t mean about it – she was actually frustratingly logical – but there’s something deeply personal about watching someone evaluate the physical representations of your identity, your comfort zones, your past selves.
“What’s the story here?” she asked, holding up this mustard yellow jumpsuit with the tags still attached. God, that thing. I bought it two years ago for my friend Sarah’s wedding, then didn’t end up going because my date bailed last minute. The jumpsuit became this symbol of disappointment, which is why I couldn’t wear it but also couldn’t return it. Complicated feelings, you know?
“It’s… there’s history,” I said weakly.
“It’s not history. It’s an unworn jumpsuit,” she said, tossing it onto the goodbye pile before I could object. “You’ve created this whole narrative, but at the end of the day, it’s just fabric and thread.”
This kept happening. Me desperately trying to justify keeping things for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with how they looked or fit, and Mia just cutting through all my BS with surgical precision.
That vintage leather jacket from Paris that’s three sizes too big? “You’re wearing the memory, not the jacket.” (Goodbye pile.)
My collection of concert t-shirts from my twenties, all faded and stretched out? “Take photos if you want to remember, then let them go.” (Goodbye pile, except I fought tooth and nail to keep my Radiohead shirt.)
Those jeans from 2010 that I’m keeping “just in case I lose ten pounds”? “Your clothes should fit your body today, not some hypothetical future body you’re punishing yourself for not having.” (Straight to the goodbye pile, along with a hefty dose of reality.)
By afternoon, my bed looked like a clothing store had exploded, and I was having a full breakdown on my bedroom floor. “Who am I without that cardigan?” I asked, only half-joking.
“Let’s find out,” Mia said, completely unfazed by my dramatics. “Now we’re getting to the interesting part.”
What happened next was honestly surprising. As we sorted through what was left – maybe 40% of what I started with – Mia pointed out patterns I’d never noticed. Apparently I have this thing for oversized, shapeless pieces that basically hide my entire body. I own beautiful, well-fitting clothes but never wear them, choosing instead what Mia called my “comfort uniform” – endless variations of baggy sweaters and elastic waistbands that make me look like I’m permanently dressed for a pandemic Zoom call.
“You dress to disappear, not to show up,” she said, reorganizing my newly edited wardrobe by color instead of my previous system of “clean enough” and “needs washing but probably won’t happen.”
Ouch. But also… accurate. Even though I write about fashion, even though I appreciate good style, I’d been using clothes as armor instead of expression. Somewhere along the way, I started dressing to blend into the background instead of confidently taking up space.
“Let’s try something,” Mia suggested, pulling out this silk blouse I bought for a TV appearance two years ago and literally never wore again. She paired it with jeans that actually fit (revolutionary concept) and a blazer I’d forgotten I owned. The outfit was simple but looked intentional in a way my daily looks never do. More importantly, it still felt like me – just a version of me that wasn’t hiding under falling-apart knitwear.
We spent the next hour creating what she called “outfit templates” – not specific outfits, but formulas I could actually replicate. Structured top plus relaxed bottom plus one extra piece like a jacket. Dress plus cardigan (a good one, not my disaster sweater). Simple color story plus statement shoes. Basic frameworks that worked with what I already had but elevated everything from “just rolled out of bed” to “functional adult human.”
The change was immediate and honestly kind of scary. I felt lighter but also anxious, like I’d just let a stranger read my diary and tear out half the pages. I was mourning clothes I hadn’t even thought about in years. I felt guilty about the waste, about all the money I’d spent on things that never served their purpose.
“That’s totally normal,” Mia reassured me. “You’re not just letting go of clothes. You’re letting go of all the versions of yourself you thought you’d become when you bought them.”
The unworn cocktail dresses represented some glamorous social life I don’t actually have. Those too-small jeans were basically tools for self-criticism disguised as motivation. The never-used workout clothes were physical manifestations of good intentions rather than actual actions. Getting rid of them meant acknowledging the gap between who I imagined myself being and who I actually am – not exactly the light, breezy makeover content I usually write about.
By evening, the transformation was dramatic. My previously stuffed closet now had actual breathing room. Everything hung without being crushed together. I could see each piece clearly. Getting dressed would no longer require archaeological excavation skills.
We dealt with the discards systematically. Good quality stuff went to consignment. Things I’d worn to death went to textile recycling rather than donation – apparently the secondhand market is completely oversaturated (who knew?). The sentimental pieces with no practical use got set aside for some theoretical future craft project.
The most shocking realization wasn’t the organized closet – it was that despite making a living writing about fashion, I hadn’t been using clothes the way I tell readers to use them. As tools for confidence, self-expression, showing up authentically in the world. Instead, I’d been hiding, apologizing, trying to disappear while also needing to look professional enough to be taken seriously. Total contradiction I never recognized until Mia forced me to see it.
In the weeks since the great closet purge, getting dressed is both easier and harder. Easier because I can actually see and access everything. Harder because I can’t hide behind shapeless layers and non-decisions anymore. I’m learning to dress for my actual body today, not the one I’ve been criticizing myself for not having. I’m actually wearing those “too nice for regular days” pieces instead of saving them for some mythical future occasion.
The emotional aftermath continues. Some mornings I still reach for my security cardigan before remembering it’s gone – phantom limb syndrome but for knitwear. Other days, I put on one of Mia’s suggested combinations and get compliments from coworkers who obviously notice something’s different. “You look… I don’t know, different,” they say, trying to figure out what changed.
What changed is I’m dressing to be seen instead of to disappear. I’m accepting that how we present ourselves matters – not in some shallow way, but as communication, as self-respect, as actually participating in our own lives instead of apologizing for taking up space.
These probably shouldn’t be revelations for someone who writes about fashion professionally. But there’s a huge difference between understanding something intellectually and accepting it emotionally, between giving advice and confronting your own patterns.
I’d been hiding in plain sight, using clothes as camouflage while professionally celebrating them as self-expression.
If you’re thinking about hiring a professional for a closet cleanout, just know it’s going to be about way more than clothes. The process strips away your defenses, your self-deceptions, all those stories you tell yourself about who you are and who you’re becoming. It’s therapeutic and traumatic at the same time. It forces you to live in the present instead of clinging to past versions of yourself or waiting for some perfect future to start actually living.
Also, maybe hide your favorite ratty sweater before the stylist shows up. Some comfort pieces are worth fighting for, holes and all.
Taylor’s a Minneapolis mom rediscovering her style between school runs and snack time. She writes about fashion that survives real life—affordable, comfortable, and still cute. Her posts are for moms who want to feel good without pretending motherhood is effortless.
