My old life doesn’t fit me anymore. It’s like a closet I keep looking in, reminding me I have nothing to wear despite the cluttered hangers stuffed with all the seasons glaring at me assuring me that I can dress for the occasion, whatever it may be. But, I haven’t known what the occasion was. Ever.  

I see all the years decades I spent looking for validation that the outside looked the part– whatever the part was. It’s a timeline of my life and all the characters I have played in an admirable attempt to understand my role. 

Life was more of a costume party than a confidence. Getting dressed gave me anxiety as long as I can remember– both as someone who struggles with hyperhidrosis and as someone that battled feeling comfortable in my own skin. Sweaty and insecure isn’t really a winning combo to build a wardrobe around, you know? 

It’s been a borrowed mix of what was easy, comfortable, and safe. Easy, comfortable, and safe weren’t familiar feelings to me so perhaps subconsciously I wanted to wrap them around me and hoped they’d permeate from the outside in.  

Waking up to my identity crisis felt optional for a long time. I knew I was being nudged toward it, but I had enough busyness around me that I could skip it entirely for the day. I distracted myself with the whims and worries of those around me and felt esteemed by the end of the day–like I’d done more good than bad.  

But I wasn’t getting any closer to the self I was so invested in helping. I was filling my closet with helper uniforms and distracting myself from the ache of loneliness I felt when I was naked because it was all an illusion of who I thought I was supposed to be to everyone but me.  

Who am I to me? 

An exhausted perfectionist addicted to self-help without ever fulfilling the prerequisite of getting to know ‘self.’ All my life, it’s been about everyone else. I got comfortable not knowing who I was because it meant life was about helping others and how honorable it was to choose others in this self-sacrificing kind of way. I took care of everyone and everything around me with a sense of accomplishment but with a gnawing hunger that wouldn’t go away. It was the only way I knew, but it felt more like I was trying to hold it all together to cross some imaginary finish line, all while being a snag away from being undone.   

But I wanted peace so bad.  

I chased it as some arrival and studied how to obtain it. I kept my sweater intact at the expense of whatever this hunger inside of me was begging for. I confused my completed checklist with the fulfillment of my spirit that was tired of being ignored and deprived because peace is an illusion when your foundation is fear. 

Everything was everywhere and yet nothing belonged. My external life was lived by a minimalist with no sentiment, and my internal landscape was hijacked by a hoarder that was holding on to every memory and pain point of my life just in case I forgot.  

I created calm outside of my life because it did not exist within the confines of my anxious thoughts.  

Waking up has been tending to the messiness of me. I kept choosing my helper uniform and avoiding creating my own role in my life, and I kept attracting people that were also avoiding their own messiness and repeating the pattern of distracting myself from mine by tending to theirs. Thank God because someone else’s chaos felt way easier to organize than my own. 

 My wake up has asked me to lean into leaving it undone. It’s difficult to be in visual disarray because it feels like a reflection of the chaos inside of me. I wanted neat and tidy on the outside because at least I could put things in places and spaces. 

But removing all my helper uniforms from my closet meant it was empty and I was, literally and proverbially, naked. So, it couldn’t be an overnight overhaul. I had to start small and replace. I had to get honest about what felt good and what I was holding onto because of sentiment and history. I had to accept what I had outgrown, and acceptance meant grieving. I had trashbags full of all the responsibility I carried that wasn’t mine because I didn’t know better.  

And just like purging a wardrobe, I’m swept away with nostalgia the moment I decide it’s time to say goodbye. Of course, there’s going to be that occasion for it or the sneaky grief that shows up to remind me of our history together. But my sentiment doesn’t mean it deserves a space in my next chapter. Things can mean something to me and also not be meant for me.   

Cleaning out my closet meant I can no longer dip into the borrowed fibers of yesterday because I’ve outgrown them. I have to let go of the parts that no longer fit in my life while learning to take up space now that I’m not cluttering my sense of self with everyone else’s. 

Because when I’m honest, my insecurities have begged for my approval and acceptance, not a poncho, and I’m committed to dressing for joy at this stage in my life.