There’s something about cleaning a wardrobe that’s never just about the clothes.
It starts as a task, fold this, discard that, make some space. And somewhere along the way, it turns into something else entirely for me.
Because my wardrobe isn’t really a wardrobe. It’s an unofficial museum of my entire personality.
The “sentimental shelf” — things I can’t wear anymore but also cannot bring myself to give away.
The “instant confidence” shelf — that one dress that makes me feel 20% more capable of handling my life, for reasons I’ve never fully understood.
And the “borrowed” shelf, which is really just things I took from my sister’s closet and never quite returned.
And then, always, there’s the one item I’d completely forgotten I owned.
I won’t tell you what it was, that’s not the point. The point is the second I found it. That small, unearned jolt of joy, like my own closet had wrapped something up and kept it safe for me, for later.
Just a gift, from me to me.
Closet in order, life in order — obviously, clearly, scientifically.
New combinations I promise myself I’ll try. Forgotten pieces, worn on purpose this time.
It lasts about four days.
Then there’s a rushed morning, or a day I simply cannot make one more decision — and I’m elbow-deep in my own newly organized closet, gently undoing all of it, just to get to the comfort clothes at the back.
We all have those, don’t we?
I can’t fully explain this cycle. The organising, the falling back, the organizing again. But I’ve stopped needing to, it’s just part of how I take care of myself, in my own roundabout way.
Does this happen to you too?
