Hello keeper of my clothes,

You’ve been waiting, I know. We are both grateful thatmom and dad didn't clear you out when they had the chance. You were kept clothed and closed while I was away at college. Now I find myself with hours to spend slowly looking through each of your dusty corners.

I’m sorry the short breaks between college semesters were never enough time to sort through the years of accumulated shirts, pants, shoes, and skirts. Even when I relocated 250 miles away for my new job, I haphazardly stuffed a few suitcases to the brim with my favorite belongings, abandoning the comfortable attire of my past.

I wanted to tell you that I purchased some new dresses while I was away. And yes, I hung them inside new spaces. My wardrobe grew and, consequently, most of what you held inside here at home lost its value.

With summer vacation comes the opportunity for limitless free time. I found myself sleeping yet again in the bedroom where I daydreamed as a curious girl and, also, as an anxious teenager. Returning home sparked a deep reflection. Maybe it is important to revisit the familiar belongings of my past, in anticipationof the upcoming transition to my future. I decided there was no better time than now to explore your stacked shelves. I was in pursuit of hidden treasures that, if luck would have it, transitioned through the stages of “fashionable” to “outdated” and, ultimately, might be revived as “trendy” once more.

You kept the attire of my past safe within your walls…

Designer jeans: Conforming to Fashion Standards and Peer Pressure.

A brand name that at the time I didn’t recognize. That was before I made the expensive purchase. Which was because of the remarks made about my economic status. From a crowd of people who didn’t understand my financial background. There was nothing more important than their approval. As if it would erase the commentary that occurred when I wasn’t around. I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever escape the scrutiny of the labels on my clothes.

I touched the texture of the distressed jeans. The irony of it was that I worked hours to afford that one pair which was deliberately designed to showcase use. I closed my eyes and remembered the words on the label that spoke to the style being uniquely destroyed for individuality. Laughter filled the room. I realize it is my own. Individuality? So I can be like everyone else. I look down at the pants on my body. They are clean and fairly new. Though I have the money to spend on any pair of my choosing I buy a quality brand known to be reasonably priced. While I cannot pinpoint the turning point, the 10 years that span these two moments only confirm that in time all things change.

The Forbidden Dress: Blurring the Line Between Love and Control

It was my favorite little black dress. The type of dress that you can wear with confidence to many different celebrations. Then I met you. At first you suggested that I wear something more conservative. With a simple smile you politely stated your opinion: “I just prefer you in that other dress!” However, over time, your suggestions became demands and I felt my confidence turn into confusion.

I remembered that our relationship was over and I quickly jumped to my feet. Within seconds I slipped the dress on and, to my surprise, it fit perfectly. But the smile on my face was for far more important reasons: I know my experiences within this unhealthy relationship will not be repeated in my future partnership; I can choose who I date and I can choose what I wear.

Hand-me-downs: Failing to Live Up to Family Expectations

An entire pile of clothes I once begged to borrow. Promises to take care of them. Wishes my body could fit their cut the same way her slender frame easily could. Dresses that she wore for small parties. Tops for job interviews as she entered adulthood. Concert t-shirts of bands we saw live. A 6-year gap spanned our age difference and I could never catch up to her, no matter how hard I tried. The truth is a hand-me-down is a gesture conveying a clear power dynamic, thinly wrapped as a gift. You discarded your clothes onto me. The burden they hold as I consider the alternative is heavier than I imagined.

I open my eyes. Each piece of clothing I put on slowly. Although, it has been years the faint smell of your perfume could still fill a room. I promised I would take care of your clothes each time I borrowed them. I took for granted the unique privilege of those ordinary opportunities. I don’t know my obligation to you anymore, as I’m as forgotten as these clothes you left behind. I place them neatly beside me and count on my fingers just as little girls do: “1, 2, 3, 4.” - it’s been 4 years since we’ve spoken. “5, 6, 7, 8” - and 8 years since we lived under the same roof. I rise and summon up my courage to build a wardrobe that doesn’t have your ghosts surrounding me.

…did you intentionally allow me to forget? A silent attempt to protecting my heart.

Now I see, the open door you provided wasn’t to a shallow space at all. I’ve found a hidden capsule filled with tangible memories. But during my time away I've stretched and grownin ways that I didn’t not expect. These clothes are too small for my emotional physique. So I will pack them away in boxes and bags for donation; they will be given a second chance in someone else’s closet whose lesson they have yet to learn.

No, these clothes aren’t worthless. Despite the wrinkles and fades, their value didn’t decrease. In fact, they lived a full life. For each of these items served to be a costume that I could hide behind.

Long before I understood that we can superficially cover our bodies, while simultaneously remaining exposed. Now I know I must rely on something much deeper to express myself. And with that understanding I discovered thatI don’t need to hold onto these artifacts of my past any longer; unless I want to be reminded of how easily fabric can be intertwined with fallacies, passively whispering expectations about who I must become.

So, dear closet, I fulfilled my intention for today. These clothes were revived, as they taught me that transitioning to womanhood requires embracing vulnerability, to no longer hide.

Love,

Danielle