Exhibit A: My Clothes

I have too many clothes.

Not in a chaotic, “I can’t close my wardrobe” kind of way (although sometimes that too), but in a way that means I can become almost anyone I feel like being on any given day. I probably have two outfits for every day of the year. I don’t say that to impress anyone. It’s just… true.

And mostly, I love it.

There’s something about getting dressed that feels like writing a poem before I’ve even picked up a pen. Fabric, colour, shape, mood—it’s all language. Some days I want softness. Some days I want structure. Some days I want to feel like I could walk straight into a room and hold it without saying a word. Clothes help me do that. They’re not disguise. They’re translation.

I stayed at a friend's house and there were no clothes to be seen, but at mine its a different scene.

Eighty percent of the time, it feels joyful. Properly joyful. Like opening a box of versions of myself and not having to choose just one forever. I can be loud in sequins, quiet in linen, practical in boots that have seen things. I can shift. I can play. I can become.

But there’s a quiet twenty percent.

Not a crisis. Not regret. Just a small pause sometimes when I stand in front of it all and think: where do I even begin? Or when I’m tired and the abundance that usually feels like freedom suddenly feels like effort. Choice, even good choice, still asks something of you.

And I’ve started noticing that difference more clearly. Joy versus noise. Expression versus overwhelm. Creativity versus clutter pretending to be creativity.

I don’t think the answer is less of me. It’s not about stripping it all back to some minimalist ideal where everything matches and nothing ever surprises you. That wouldn’t fit. I know that already. I am not a “three outfits and done” person. I am someone who thinks in layers, in moods, in shifts.

But I do think there’s something in noticing what actually gets worn. What actually carries me through real days, not imagined ones. The pieces that don’t just look like me, but feel like me when I’m tired, or late, or full of ideas I can’t quite place yet.

Maybe that’s what it’s really about. Not owning less. But listening more closely.

Because clothing, for me, has never just been clothing. It’s been performance, protection, possibility. It’s been a way of saying: I am here, and I am allowed to change.

And if most of it still brings me joy, then maybe I’m not doing it wrong. Maybe I’m just in the ongoing process of learning which versions of myself want to be worn more often.