new motherhood + fashion crisis

This year, I’ve been on a mission to buy fewer clothes.

I had an existential fashion crisis shortly after becoming a mom. It started before that actually, while I was pregnant—but I figured it was temporary and it would be over after he was here. But then I gave birth, and nothing went back to normal. Not only did I have a completely differently shaped body, but it had morphed to be entwined with another human—it had not been mine for quite some time and would not be for quite some time again. My hips were wide, my belly was still round, my boobs leaked with milk constantly. Everything hurt from contorting myself around this little human. Everything was electrified. I felt like I was in an alien body–one that looked and smelled weird. After the first few weeks, I was dying to get out of the gross postpartum pajama fit I had lived in and feel beautiful again. But what to wear? Nothing fit. Nothing in my closet made sense. My clothes suddenly needed function. But also form? Maternal but not matronly? Do I have style outside of being a mom? What even is style? Do I get to have one at this point or will they unearth me in these crusted pajamas?

I decided to research and internet my way through this. I googled “hwat do new mpthjers sppsedf to wear” and was helpfully directed to fashion blogs. How to be a stylish, cozy mama. Oh, and they included links to their adorable and functional outfits so that I could buy them right there. And I could scroll on instagram too to see more choices! And some of them are sleep experts and offer courses…? I’ll spare writing about that mistake. To summarize a tedious story, I bought way too many clothes, for way too cheap, often in the wee hours of the early morning, and it didn’t solve my problem.

I’m sure most people can identify with falling into the influencer trap at some point. It seems like you’re most vulnerable when there’s been a huge personal transition or upheaval in identity–going to college (getting that first bandage dress), graduating from college (and realizing bandage dresses aren’t part of real life, RIP), starting a new office job (day to night!), and especially, becoming a new mom. There’s a real need for the right fit for the right job, but in this case, clothing is only part of it. When I was a new mom, I wanted something to make me feel like me again, but I couldn’t articulate what it was. It wasn’t another peasant dress or a shirt with buttons. It also wasn’t about losing weight—I had sweated out thirty pounds in about 10 days (yeah I said I was gross), and yet my beautiful round body was still bigger and different than it had been before.

I had to stop looking for my identity in influencer blogs and Instagram posts. Our shared closet had become overwhelming and the sheer accumulation of stuff was making me stressed. But mainly, I started to realize that buying more things had become a wound that I needed to be healed from. And it couldn’t be healed until I started addressing what was underneath the piles of dresses and why they were there in the first place. I loved being a mom and didn’t miss my life before. I was in awe of the fact that I sustained and continued to sustain life with my body. Gradually, as my body curved with the weight of carrying a newborn, and then a chubby infant, and now a velcro toddler, I realized that I had changed deeply and irrevocably. It was the new shape of me that I wasn’t used to. Like a baby adjusting to his new life outside the womb and crying for me in the middle of the night, a new mother needed tender care too. Becoming a mother wasn’t simply the act of giving birth–a death-life had taken place. A part of me had died and a new tiny bud had formed there. It would bloom soon and become more beautiful and radiant than what was there before, but for now, the loss was painful and difficult and messy.

I needed to let go and let myself be healed. I began by purging my closet of everything that no longer fit, including jeans from when I was pretending to be a size 6 in 2019 (releasing myself from the idea that fitting into the Before is a goal), things that were no longer my style (bye, microtrend sailor shirt), and anything that I just simply no longer liked. Even if it was expensive, impulsive, or objectively nice. I released myself from holding on to it. With my closet pared down, I was then able to hone in on what was really me. I began embracing things that I love–well worn sweaters, floral dresses, fake and real Dr. Martens, and yes, peasant dresses and shirts (I’ll never change). I embraced my new body, loving every stretch mark and lump and curve, marked forever with the love that came out of me. My identity as a mom isn’t contingent on whether I decide to wear pajamas in public or gowns to make homemade cheetos. It’s not really about the clothes.

I’m buying fewer things this year and delighting in what I have now. Everything I have is worn and loved—I’m an unapologetic fit repeater. I love fashion and with fewer things, there’s more room for my actual style to blossom.