Reclaiming My Body and Closet

The suitcase was stuffed to its maximum capacity, and I knew dragging it down three flights of stairs, through an alleyway, then back up three flights of stairs wasn’t going to do it any favors. But it was my suitcase, and it should know I tend to overpack. I had haphazardly thrown belongings in, realizing I wouldn’t be able to take my entire room and move it into my partner’s apartment.

There wasn't any rhyme or reason to why I packed what I packed. I somehow thought I needed two sparkly, gaudy Starbucks cups, a finger piano, books I never read but had planned to, and countless other objects I couldn't part with at the time. This randomness spread to the clothes I packed as well. Grandpa sweaters (from my actual grandpas), all of my jeans, mismatched socks, bright leggings ... the assortment was odd but evidently me.

While the months passed, the fashion sense I once prided myself on slowly deteriorated. I viciously online shopped through the Urban Outfitters sale section and tore into any good deal I could find, but it didn't matter. I wasn't wearing those clothes anyway. I had grown used to wearing my partner's denim overalls, sweatshirts and leggings. My morning routine fell apart and only consisted of the bare minimum. My makeup collected dust (even though I ordered three more eyeshadow palettes) and my shoes were barely worn (all while I bought two more pairs). The only consistency I had was my nightly skincare routine — I was up until 4 a.m. anyway, and the birds are good company at that hour.

But I wanted to change this. Getting ready wasn’t fun anymore. I missed putting on multiple outfits in front of my friends to see which one looked better for a first date. Or having my friend teach me how to do eyeliner with shaky hands. I missed making new memories in my shoes, whether it was a rip from a mosh pit or mustard from a county fair. I missed living outside of the rut quarantining put me in.

It started with plucking my eyebrows. Then it slowly went to wearing my own pants again. Then trying makeup styles I hadn't done before because I didn’t want to rely on friends doing my eyeshadow for every night out. Bras were and still are out of the question. But finally, I put on form-fitting outfits again. A new year's resolution I had for 2020 was to embrace my body for all that it is and be unapologetic for the space it takes up. Quarantining sabotaged this goal without me even realizing it. I took too many steps back in this journey of self-love and appreciation for what my body does for me.

I went through my closet and pushed aside the usual outfits I would throw on before a Zoom meeting, hair in an unbrushed bun and only two out of four earring holes in use. I had grown uncomfortable with how comfortable I was in this state. Why was it so hard to look good for myself? Did I have to prove to myself that I was worth it? I thought about this while rummaging through the clothes I brought and bought, the accessories, the makeup, the shoes — everything. I was drowning in materials I wasn’t even acknowledging. But now there was an intention behind the way I looked.

I needed to reclaim my body and how I perceived myself.

My body has changed while in quarantine and I neglected it. I chose to turn away from that developing relationship between me and my body, which caused that flow of self-love to go dry for a bit. This wasn’t just about dressing myself up, it was about genuinely feeling good again in the ways I knew how. I had often relied on looking good to feel good, and I had to embrace that feeling rather than seeking approval from the mirror hanging on the door or from those who would see me. How I made myself look was a love letter to the effort I knew I deserved.

Reclaiming is a constant process, but starting somewhere familiar — my body, my clothes, my style — has made it less about going into uncharted territory and more about coming back to a home I left much too soon.