A few months ago, I was getting ready for lunch with a friend and I stood in front of my closet for a solid fifteen minutes without pulling a single thing out.
It wasn’t because I had nothing to wear. It was because I had too much. And somehow, none of it felt right.
There were blouses I hadn’t touched in years hanging next to sweaters I forgot I owned.
A row of work pants from a job I retired from. Two pairs of jeans that hadn’t fit since before the pandemic. A dress I wore to my son’s wedding that I kept moving to the front of the rod like I was going to wear it again any day now.
I ended up wearing the same black top I always wear. Closed the door. And told myself I’d deal with it later.
Later turned into another six months.
When I finally did deal with it, it wasn’t because I had some burst of motivation or found the perfect system.
It was because my friend Karen (the same one who called out my thirty-four drinking glasses) came over and said, “Show me the closet.”
So I did. And she stood there, looked at the whole thing, and said, “Alison, who are all these clothes for?”
She wasn’t being mean. She was asking a real question. And I didn’t have a good answer.
That afternoon, we started pulling things out. And what I found in that closet told me a lot more about myself than I expected.
What My Closet Was Really Holding Onto
Once everyth