I’ve made no secret about the fact that early motherhood didn’t suit me (so much so that I wrote a book about it). After a year-long, severe postpartum depression that made it nearly impossible to connect with my child, or even with the idea that motherhood could be remotely enjoyable, I slowly clawed my way back to the land of the living through a combination of therapy, medication, and the slow, unglamorous work of changing myself.
The one thing that never quite collapsed, even at my lowest, was how I thought about what I put on my body, even when I was the one in the diaper. I clung to clothing with desperation, as one of the few chances I had at feeling like my old self.
At my absolute depths, I had elastic waistbands sewn into Miu Miu skirts I could no longer zip, and forced my swollen body into vintage pieces I had collected over the years (even though my still-distended abdomen was barely contained by the strained, aging fabric, causing well-meaning strangers to ask, “When are you due?”). I refused to give in, which is how I ended up drunk at a party, in a Chanel gown, zipper so busted that the back had fallen open and my underwear was showing—and not in the intentional, Hailey Bieber naked dressing way, but in the “Tuesday”-printed-across-the-butt way of my Indiana childhood.
On the other side of that year, something shifted: I’d fallen in love with my son. I felt duty-bound to love my children in a way that would teach them to love themselves. And I wanted, selfishly, for motherhood to be fun and fulfilling for me, since it was a job I’d signed up for permanently. That part felt almost taboo to admit, but it mattered to me. So I began learning how to mother in ways that felt authentic, ways that honored who I was, not just who I thought I was supposed to become.
There had been a time in my life when clothes were pure fantasy, an ethereal version of who I might one day become. They were on the pages of magazines from New York City. Discussing them was a way of connecting with other women, of building friendships that felt electric and hopeful. Clothes once promised possibility. I deserved more than monotony, even in a sneaker.
I began to understand that if I wanted to relate to my kids in a way that felt good for all of us, I had to go back and tend to the 11-year-old version of myself, the knobby-kneed kid who dreamed of growing up to dress like a professional ballerina who was also a cheerleader and, possibly at the same time, a popular girl in a mini-skirted school uniform that defied all the rules of the dress code.
Getting dressed became one of the few ways I could hold onto myself. Kids are unapologetically themselves; one of the great lessons of having them has been that I should be, too. So I shopped for vintage sweatshirts like the ones that my middle school crushes once wore, and popped in hair bows that looked like the ones that had once come with my Samantha American Girl Doll. I grabbed flannel shirts that reminded me of ones that the upperclassmen sported in the ’90s, and I paired baby-pink transparent skirts with leotards that I bought from dance supply stores. I let my hair grow long; I braided it like an awkward teen whose limbs hadn’t evened out yet—and may never. I wore Sanrio pastels and let myself feel like I had as a younger girl again, each outfit referencing a memory of who I once was, that little girl I needed to love so that I could be the most loving adult version of me.