In the Stitch

There’s a Sailor Moon sweatshirt in my wardrobe that could practically eat me alive. It’s huge, hits just above my knees, and comfy in that way only over-worn things ever are. To be honest, it’s been stashed in my pyjama drawer for years now. It’s not elegant or structured or ‘it girl’ in any sense, but it’s still one of the most important things I own.

Why you ask? 

I wore it religiously at sixteen, back when I didn’t think fashion was something I was allowed to take seriously. For a long while I thought style belonged to other girls, confident girls, pretty girls, girls who already knew exactly who they were. I wasn’t that girl yet. I was quiet, unsure, dressing for comfort because comfort felt safer than being seen.

That sweatshirt was my armour. It was big enough to hide me at a time when I didn’t want to take up space, when I was insecure about my body, when I genuinely believed I could never look good in the things I loved seeing on models and runways. And yet, ironically, it’s the piece that pushed me toward who I am now.

It reminds me of late nights watching anime on my cracked phone screen, googling Vivienne Westwood jewellery I couldn’t afford, dreaming of clothes that said something about me even when I didn’t know what that ‘something’ was yet. It reminds me of the girl who felt invisible but was full of heart, creativity, imagination, and the longing to look like the girls in the stories she loved.

I don’t wear it out anymore. As I said, it’s been retired to my permanent sleepwear collection, but that’s the point. Some clothes follow you into adulthood not because they still fit your aesthetic or style, but because they carry an old version of you in their seams.

When I see it hanging there at the end of my bed, I remember that girl. The one learning to dream. The one who didn’t know she’d one day have a blog, a wardrobe she adored, and a reflection she didn’t want to hide from.

Some items don’t just take up space in your closet. They hold the pieces of you that got you here.

More confessions soon,

The Stitcher