This is the tragic story about building a closet full of clothing I love and then waking up one day unable to fit into any of them. And what comes after.
Four years ago, I was riding high on a heady, post-Covid wardrobe combination: 1) I was finally able to afford the clothing I wanted and, 2) at 33, I was beginning to understand how to dress my body shape. If you are interested, I am a pear shape, meaning my lower body takes up more visual space than my upper body. Translation: I have small tits :).
At the same time, I was working for a company who occupied the fashion sweet spot where dressing well was admired but not required. Knowing I had essentially graduated college just so my mom would buy me my first real suit, I was living my fashion dream. After paying off debt and earning a few raises, my husband and I had loosened up the family budget enough to give each of us a bit more fun money to spend however we wanted, no questions asked. My fun money could have been renamed “Elise’s clothing fund”, as that’s really all I spent it on. There was the odd lunch or coffee in there, but for the most part, my monthly fun money went towards whittling down my clothing wish list. Cashmere sweater? I bought two. Wool trousers? I had a pair in navy, black, and a lovely emerald green. Victoria Beckham sheath dress? Absolutely, although, zipping it required Spanx from my shoulders down to my knees. Still counts! Silk blouses, tailored jackets, wool coats, beautiful skirts and dresses; I finally had them all. No matter the day, I truly loved what I wore. If there was an upcoming work event, like a client visit or a conference, I planned exactly what I would be wearing each day in advance based on the agenda details, my responsibilities, and the predicted weather. I freaking loved it.
And then, I quit. After spending a decade of my life at the same company and surviving a successful IPO, it was suddenly in my rearview mirror, relegated to the small corner of my mind where I store bittersweet memories.
Initially, I was in style denial. Why wouldn’t I keep wearing my favorite silk button-up? Of course there would still be opportunities to show off that tuxedo dress. Trousers go great with school pick-up… right? RIGHT???
So I kept every piece hanging in my closet, waiting for the right time to put them on, a wool and silk shrine to my former, more stylish self. Slowly, I found ways of incorporating the pieces into my new pace, my new world. Did it always make sense to wear trousers when I was heading down to the basement to work on my little, one-person, start-up clothing company? No, it did not. But through trial and error, I discovered they look spectacular when paired with a slouchy t-shirt. Does wearing my silk button-up to soccer practice always make sense? No, no it does not. But it sure looks great with dark wash jeans and loafers.
I missed the compliments and the confidence. I missed the fashion conversations with my fellow fashion-obsessed co-workers. I missed recommending brands to friends and strangers who asked where I had found something. But there was always the promise of the future. Perhaps I could build Martindale into something where all my favorite outfits could once again be resurrected to their former glorious usefulness.
And then, I had a hysterectomy and double oophorectomy, and I was thrown into surgical menopause as violently as I threw away my last box of tampons into the trash. They had removed two softball size masses, previously known as ovaries, but which had been overtaken by endometriosis. Initially, I felt better. No more lower back pain. Less bloating. Six months after surgery, despite being on hormone replacement therapy, I plunged into menopause as the last of my naturally produced estrogen was used up and my bi-weekly doses were too low to keep hot flashes and night sweats from taking over. The hormonal roller coaster meant I put on fifteen pounds in a matter of weeks, despite no change in diet or exercise (alright, a little change in diet and exercise because, let’s be real, surgical menopause had me crying in bed most days).
It was difficult for a number of reasons. As most of us know, there is no joy in gaining weight unexpectedly. Add this to the weight showing up almost exclusively in my mid-section, and I now had legitimate reasons to cry in bed. For the first time in my adult life other than pregnancy, all of my clothing was uncomfortable and the majority of it unwearable. There were bulges in new places, and my pant waistbands were trying to cut me in half.
The first priority was to balance my hormones so I could get out of bed and function again. Weight loss was a distant second. So I was forced to pause. I was relegated to a small corner of my closet made up of more forgiving, stretchier items. My closet went from something I loved to spend time in to a graveyard of dusty hangers and unworn clothing. The weight gain corresponded with me quitting my salaried job to focus my time and efforts on our fledgling clothing business. The fun money budget we enjoyed when we were both salaried professionals disappeared with my waistline. I could not immediately go out and purchase a new wardrobe, which would have been hard to accomplish even with some extra room in our budget.
After another six months of climbing out of the emotional and hormonal menopause cavern, I still have not been able to shave off the weight, even with consistent diet and exercise. A little bit of control has been taken away from me. Where I used to be able to quickly see results from my efforts, I have nothing. I feel better and I sleep better and I no longer have sweat sliding down the center of my back during an overwhelming hot flash, but I still cannot fit into my favorite jeans. Because the weight hasn’t come off even with balanced hormones, I am faced with a choice: accept my new size and shape or do something more drastic.
The seasons are turning now, and I have had to reframe my sizing in my mind to be able to shop realistically, for the body I have now and not for the one I may never get back. Ten years ago, I would have purchased my old size believing I would fit back into them someday. But today, I know myself a bit better, and I know my weight is an unreliable measurement of contentment. I’m a mom and a wife and an entrepreneur. Fitting into my favorite Alexander McQueen jeans is no longer my top priority. In fact, it doesn’t even make an appearance.
Having gone through years of severe endometriosis and a significant surgery, I want to be strong and active, not skinny. I want to be able to sleep soundly and without pain after a day spent working on my dream, digging in the garden, and playing frisbee golf with my kids. My twenty-year-old self would look at me and wonder if I was becoming that old mom who only wears embroidered sweatshirts and mom jeans (Don’t worry. I haven’t bought any sweatshirts with cats on them… yet…) She doesn’t understand how different life looks on this side.
And so, as hard as it is to accept, my love for building an instagram-worthy outfit has taken a step back. When I have the money to purchase a few new things, I am focused on fit and quality; things I think I can love for years to come. Unlike pregnancy, I am not shopping with the mindset to simply get through this phase and then be able to go back to my smaller sized wardrobe after I’ve lost the weight. It may not be a reality for some time, and in the meantime, I want to feel as good as I am able. I will keep working out and lifting weights and getting in my steps. If my body decides it is no longer in crisis and can release some of those inches from my stomach, fabulous.
If not, Rome was not built overnight. My new, more generous, wardrobe will take time to create. In the meantime, I get the chance to take a step back and review my style. Do tuxedo dresses and silk blouses still serve me? Does this new life I dived into require something new? What story am I telling now? Do I even like the brands I used to shop from, or were they just well-known?
The reality is I still miss wearing my emerald green cashmere jacket. And I look forward to wearing it again someday, or finding a new home for it with someone else who will love it like I do. This isn’t really the end; it’s just an unexpected new beginning.
Have you gone through something similar? What tips do you have?
Don't forget to give yourself some grace, and until next time,
Elise
