My Closet Is Gaslighting Me

There was a time—not all that long ago—when my closet and I had a solid understanding.

I bought the clothes.

It held the clothes.

And together, we made a reasonable attempt at fashion and function.

But lately? I open those closet doors and it’s like I’ve stumbled into a department store designed for a stranger. A stranger who apparently had energy, ambition, a flat stomach, and somewhere fancy to be. I stand there in my robe, coffee in hand, staring at my wardrobe like I’m expecting one of the hangers to reach out and hand me a life plan.

Spoiler: it never does.

Let’s be real—my closet thinks I’m someone I no longer am. It’s filled with clothes meant for versions of me that have quietly packed their bags and moved on. Outfits for meetings I don’t attend, events I don’t care about, and moods I don’t really feel anymore. It’s like opening a time capsule curated by a woman who hadn’t yet realized that comfort, ease, and a good pair of stretchy pants were the real holy trinity.

And don’t even get me started on the shoes.

There are heels in there that I must’ve bought during a period of temporary insanity—or possibly under the influence of Pinterest. What exactly was I planning to do in those 4-inch stilettos? Solve a murder mystery at a rooftop cocktail hour? Lead a TED Talk on cobblestone streets? My ankles just laughed out loud.

Then there’s the whole emotional side of things.

Some of those clothes are laced with old stories. Dresses I wore to events with people I don’t speak to anymore. Shirts I bought for jobs I left behind. Jeans that used to fit when life was different—when I was different. I’ve spent so much time keeping these garments around like emotional relics, as if owning them helps me hold on to those pieces of the past.

But here’s the thing: I’m not trying to go back. I’m building something new.

This midlife chapter? It’s not a sequel. It’s a spin-off. A wildly unfiltered, comfortable-as-hell, unexpected hit that nobody saw coming—but should’ve.

And so, I’ve started a closet cleanse. Not the trendy kind where you organize everything by color and lie to yourself about folding jeans the Marie Kondo way. Nope. I’m doing the kind where I hold things up and ask, “Would I wear this to sit on my porch, feel powerful, and tell someone off with a smile?” If the answer’s no, it’s gone.

If it doesn’t stretch, flow, or make me feel like I’ve reached a stage in life where I no longer chase approval (or the last word), then I don’t need it anymore.

I want clothes that match this version of me:

The one who has boundaries.

The one who’s learning to rest.

The one who likes a little drama in her lipstick but none in her inbox.

Give me big cardigans and even bigger opinions. Give me soft cotton, loud prints, and bare feet in the grass. Give me outfits that hug the body I have today—not the one I used to have or the one I’m told to chase.

So no, closet. I won’t be gaslit today.

You may have once been filled with expectation, comparison, and a few misguided “goal jeans,” but not anymore. We’re cleaning house. And if the next time I open those doors, all I see is three black maxi dresses and a hoodie that says *“Thou Shalt Not Try Me”—*perfect. She gets me.