Per usual, we went hard on Halloween. Per usual, it was awesome. Special thanks to my husband for becoming a photojournalist and following me around all day with his camera. He shot the team at work and the team at home. Also, we were all back and showered and in pajamas by the fire sorting candy at 7:30pm; it was glorious.
I am the same woman who screams coral and school bus yellow and maybe cobalt all summer long and then black, black, black as soon as winter sends a whiff. My sense of fashion shifts with the seasons and I am learning to be okay with it. I’m not broken. I’m dynamic.
I am equal parts color corrector under the eyes from a TikTok video and pants with a rise so high they could serve as a bra. I am thirty-six; hear me roar.
Done trying to change the way she looks.
Ready instead to change the way I see her.
Ready instead to change the way I talk about her.
My most tumultuous years with my mother were in my early teens. By the time I was driving and going to parties and making decisions in dangerous times, I had already mellowed out. I remember still being in high school and apologizing profusely for the way I’d treated my mom at the tender age of fourteen. Middle school wasn’t super sweet for me, and my entry to puberty felt a little bumpy. There was glitter in my hair and I didn’t even need to wear a bra yet. Things felt a little twisty.
So man, did I treat my mom like trash during that twilight between childhood and the teenage stage (which is of course when I reached total enlightenment). And the claws almost always came out in the morning. I’m an odd version of a morning person. I have no problem waking early. I pop right up without issue. Seriously, I don’t even need an alarm. But I don’t love lots of stimulating conversation first thing. I don’t want to eat before the sun rises, and I don’t welcome any constructive criticism before the rooster crows, either.
So back then I was a ticking time bomb, because all of those things happened on a daily basis. There were encouraging murmurs for me to eat. There was side eye about my outfits or the way I wore my hair. There were questions about lunch accounts and projects and how late did I think I would be at whatever activity after school. You know, that super offensive prying stuff parents do. And so I’d explode, always toward my mother. I’d say hurtful things and roll my eyes. I’d ignore her until she raised her voice just enough for me to look at her like she was idiot for talking so loudly. I’d huff and puff and complain and threaten.
After one particularly nasty spat, I stomped up to my room. Whether I was sent or took my own terrible attitude up there, I don’t know. What I do remember is pitching a fit about my outfit when I arrived back to my room. I had nothing to wear. It was picture day or something super important, and I needed to change for the billionth time. And my hair was a mess. I was crying and grumbling and trying to change when I got caught up in tights and buttons, which made everything worse. We’d definitely be late for school now, but I’d find a way to blame it on my mom.
And then my dad walked in.
My father is not like my mother. He is not naturally warm and nurturing. He does not struggle like she does, with serving and giving and pouring out until he’s empty. I grew up feeling very supported and loved by my dad, but also very fearful of him. He had a tendency to react harshly in heated situations, and then he’d process with me later. So there I was, stuck halfway through an outfit change with tears and snot in my hair, and Scary Gary entered the room. He was clean shaven and in a suit, not a hair out of place. He’d undoubtedly heard me and my mom while getting ready for work, and I was done. I was in for it.
But he didn’t say a word. He just walked across my bedroom to me and helped pull the new jumper combination over my head, zipping it up the back and pulling my ponytail out of my turtleneck. His silence told me everything. I was acting out, I was in the wrong, and he loved me anyway. He was going to let me deescalate and calm down and repent by myself. He was not going to drag me there this time, not when I was already so vulnerable and ashamed.
And then suddenly, he reversed the jumper backward over my head, leaving me in just a turtleneck and tights and shoes.
Anything but mauve, Rach. I tell your mom this too. I just don’t like colors like mauve and taupe.
We had a lot going on in 2013. Because we moved into the farm house and welcomed Hadassah Lee that year, a close watch was kept over both our finances and our storage space. As a little challenge and experiment, I decided to refrain from purchasing any new clothing for myself for the entire year. Y’all, it was not as hard as you might think. I encourage everyone to try it for a a few months, at least. In fact, it became difficult to shop again – as crazy as that sounds! I decided to break the streak after about fourteen months, in preparation for a cruise this past spring. I found myself putting things back before I even hit the dressing room. I had gotten so used to avoiding shopping that I kept convincing myself I didn’t need anything new at all, even after the year was over. Don’t worry, that feeling didn’t last for very long.
During that shopping trip, I picked up a few pieces that would serve as the foundation of what I had decided would be my new style. Nothing exciting, really, just a classic look that felt comfortable without looking too comfortable. Does that make sense? I’ve been exploring this idea with the help of ladies like Hayley for years. I think it’s important that women, especially moms, maintain their own sense of identity through style as they move through life.
As the months passed, I pared down my closet further and further. If I hadn’t worn something in six months, I put it away. If it fit but I didn’t love it on my post-baby body (ex: a belly button that pokes out through my shirts, for real), I put it away. I also started reading about the capsule wardrobe movement, with really helpful input from Caroline and Elise and Jacey. By the middle of December, I’d given away or consigned a ton of my clothes, and stored the rest in a bin out in the shed. I even slipped a note into the bin that reads, Clothes I hid from myself in December of 2014. The plan is to incorporate those into a spring capsule or get rid of them when the time comes. Although I’ve been slowly working up to it all year, this is the first season I’m being official about it and I think I’ve gotten my winter capsule all lined up. I kept things very simple because although I love rules, they stress me out. And I love moderation.
My goal was to keep my wardrobe under 40 pieces, not including coats or shoes or accessories. I don’t have a ton of those anyway, so it’s not like I had a lot of sorting and choosing to do. I also have zero reasons to wear a dress this winter, so I didn’t put a dress in this capsule either. I ended up with ten bottoms and around twenty-five tops, including sweaters. I’m still in the process of swapping out a few things, but I really didn’t need to purchase a lot.
I’ve also never really been a seasonal shopper. My mom did a really good job of teaching me to buy what I need when I need it and not get all riled up about phrases like back-to-school shopping. So a lot of this new capsule was stuff I already owned. There’s a whole of black and white and gray, so I eliminated the few brown-themed pieces I had and stored them away for next fall. I found a lot of freedom in that. There’s no pressure to keep something in my closet just because it works for cold weather. It can be used for early spring or fall next year. I did not include any basics in my count, like pajamas and work-out clothes and camisoles. I also did not include my work scrubs in the count, although I did scale my collection down to six matching pairs.
There’s really nothing militant about building a capsule. Instead, I found it’s about building your style first, and then building your wardrobe around it. Every time you get dressed, you should feel good about the way you look. So I simply got rid of the stuff that didn’t make me feel good. I stopped hoarding the free t-shirts from work, and I stopped wearing the pajama pants I’ve owned since middle school that make my husband snort. Instead, I slowly replaced my pajama drawer with solid color tees that are comfy enough for wearing around the house but presentable enough for wearing out of the house too. I stopped making impulse purchases at places like Target and Forever 21, and I started buying better-quality pieces at affordable places like Nordstrom Rack or eBay or even second-hand Instagram shops from women I know and trust. I stopped trying to wear things that don’t work with my body (ex: boyfriend jeans), and I started paying attention to the way that certain fits make me feel. Now that I can accurately describe my own style, everything I buy has to complement everything else in my closet – or else I don’t buy it. And now that I’ve built a wardrobe around my style, I feel good in every outfit. Seriously, I strut or dance down the hallway pretty much every day now, because of the way this capsule makes me feel. And as silly or trendy as this capsule wardrobe movement might seem to some, that’s reason enough to keep me on the bandwagon.
