“How do I want to feel today?” Since watching Stasia Savasuk’s Ted Talk, this is the question I’ve asked myself every day before getting dressed. At some points during the past few years, I haven’t had the clothing I wanted or needed to successfully answer this question. But now, at 34, I’ve culled my clothing down to a closet full of things I love and use for daily life (mostly working from home, walking our Shih Tzu Santi and visiting with loved ones).
I’ve recently learned a new term for the way that I feel when I put on my well-loved garments. In 2012 Hajo Adam and Adam Galinksy from Northwestern University coined the phrase, “enclothed cognition”, defined as the systematic influence that clothes have on the wearer’s psychological processes. Emily vanSonnenberg summed up their work, saying, “…the influence of clothes depends both on wearing the clothing and the meaning it invokes in their psychological schemas. People must ascribe a symbolic meaning to the article of clothing and actually wear it, for that clothing to have any measurable effect.”
So, for example, I have a couple wool blazers in my closet that I associate with professionalism and confidence. When I put them on for a work event or important meeting, I put on that assurance that I can conquer the tasks ahead. On the other hand, I recently parted with about 1/3 of the clothes in my wardrobe, because they didn’t make me feel either comfortable or competent. They may give someone else that feeling, but on me they felt lackluster.
A stylist I follow, Dacy of The Mindful Closet, has a whole course on this. She focuses on unlearning the ways we think we ought to dress, the ways society have told us are acceptable for someone of our age, gender and profession, and replacing that with how we want to dress ourselves.
It makes sense to me, then, that often when I put on a piece of clothing I bought because I saw someone else wear it well, there’s some discomfort. It can feel a lot like I’m putting on someone else’s personality. It might nag at my mind the same way a scratchy tag or a too-tight waistband bothers my body.
This idea has been reinforced a couple times recently. One poignant moment was when I pulled my very first solo me-made dress over my head. I had chosen the fabric, the pattern, and done each stitch and alteration myself. This dress felt like an extension of me more than anything I’ve ever worn, because it was of me. I discovered a superpower in sewing that I hadn’t expected: putting on myself.
The second time was this weekend, when I had to walk around my neighbourhood and run errands. In the light fall rain, my outfit felt comfortable and cozy, but also breathed and moved with me during my hour and a half walk. I realized that I had owned almost every item on my body for more than a year. They had survived multiple declutters, and some were even duplicate items I had repurchased because of how well they function for me. Not one had been bought because I saw an advertisement for it, or saw someone else wearing it on social media and had to purchase it.
It’s fascinating to me how my quest for a closet that reflects me intersects with my desire for less stuff in my life. By clearing out the clutter of things I’ve bought because I thought I was supposed to, accepted as gifts, or was “influenced” into, I’ve discovered I already have everything I need to live my life. The shoes I was wearing today? A Christmas gift from my husband three years ago. My jacket? Even older. And my top is one from Costco that I bought in three other colours because I like it so much.
Capitalism and patriarchy tell us in subtle and overt ways that we need to constantly reinvent ourselves in order to stay relevant. Buying a never ending flow of new things so we look “appropriate” and “attractive” is a huge part of that. But it’s really only in taking a step back, quieting the noise through actively not shopping and not looking at media that we can hear the quiet voice that’s pounding inside us, telling us what WE want to wear.
In the past few months I’ve bought a single clothing item- a pair of shoes for my side job. Other than those, which I truly needed for the specifics of my work, I haven’t had a moment where I was without an item to do a specific activity. That’s a privilege, yes, but it’s also clarity from getting rid of years of haphazard and wasteful purchases. Somewhere along the line I realized what works for me, and I’ve mostly stuck to it. I can go through my day now centred in who I am and the tasks ahead of me. That kind of peace is worth the mistakes I made along the way.
What parts of your personality and lifestyle do your favourite clothing items reflect? Do you struggle with letting go of items you think you should be wearing?
Grace’s Way 
What a beautifully written article. It makes me think about the things I wear. I so rarely feel comfortable in what I wear…if ever. I don’t even know what that might feel like.