The Dreamer's Pen

I decided to completely annihilate my wardrobe. Like, everything came out. Every hanger. Every bin. Every drawer. My living room is basically a fabric apocalypse right now.

We’re talking over twenty years of clothes. Some of it belonged to my mom but most of it’s mine and they represent my moods, my body changes, and my phases, all piled up in front of me.

I set some rules for myself- real rules, not “maybe I’ll wear it someday” nonsense:

Does it feel like me right now?

Would I actually wear it or am I just holding on to the idea of it?

Does it fit my body and my life comfortably?

If it belonged to my mom, do I keep it because I love her in it, or just because I feel guilty letting it go?

Does it bring me real peace?

——

Once I got honest with myself, it became clear: almost everything had to go.

I’m talking over 5,000 pieces of clothing headed straight to charity.

Five. Thousand. Pieces.

And I’m not even exaggerating.

It’s not just clothes- it’s like a timeline of my life. My twenties…my thirties..

All the heartbreaks, all the growth, all the seasons where I didn’t even know who I was. Some of it I’ve outgrown and some of it I probably never even fit into properly.

My weight has fluctuated a lot over the years as most women’s does and that’s part of why my closet got so out of control. I’ve gone through phases of grief, stress, and health changes. You name it and each phase left a trail of clothes behind. Pants that pinch, tops that gape and jackets that slide off my shoulders like they have no respect for me. Honestly, I probably have 300 pairs of pants that never fit right. Ridiculous.

Now I’m staring at my closet, which is basically empty. Black, navy, a few evening gowns I’ll never wear. Honestly? I feel like I’m channeling Safiya Nygaard. It’s amazing, but I am really lacking basics and color.

Just me, a sea of black and navy, silently judging everything I’ve ever owned.

I can see the generational trauma in all of this. My mom grew up in post World War II Germany. Scarcity. Bombed houses. Nothing to hold onto but every scrap you could find. She brought that here and taught me to do the same. Hold on. Just in case. Save everything. I did this for years, but now I am ready to release that generational trauma.

I’m done holding onto over twenty years of clothes I don’t even like anymore. That’s not survival.

This is me, INFJ 4w5, getting real: I feel everything, I overthink everything, and I see patterns that would make most people’s heads spin. But I’m ruthless when it comes to my own stuff. If it doesn’t serve me emotionally, physically, and energetically – it’s gone.

I’m making space for freedom, for clarity, and for clothes that fit me and not the ghost of every version of me I’ve ever been.

It feels good.