As spring cleaning season rolls in, I eagerly embrace the chance to purge unnecessary items. I gladly tackle the garage—out go the outdated tricycles, the half-broken sled that has been dormant for too long, and those hedge trimmers that I’ve avoided using due to a fear of injury. I gather old toys and stuffed animals from the basement for donation and toss out forgotten notes and cut-out articles from my desk. Each time I clear out, I feel lighter and more liberated.
But my closet is a different story. This walk-in closet (which was a major selling point for me when I first toured my home) resembles an overstuffed costume department filled with remnants from the 1990s, 2000s, and today. I’ve absorbed all the advice from organization and fashion experts who suggest that if I haven’t worn something in a year or if it doesn’t fit perfectly, it’s time to let it go. While this logic resonates with a part of me, another part—likely my heart—struggles to comply. Each garment carries a history, a memory, and an emotional bond that makes it hard to let go.
Recently, I attempted to declutter and held up a gray wool suit from Ann Taylor, the one with the flattering A-line skirt and subtle pleats. I asked my husband if he thought I’d wear it again. His playful response, “Are you planning to interview at an investment bank?” made it clear that the suit had outlived its purpose. Still, I couldn’t part with it. It was my first professional suit, purchased while I was earning my MBA back in 2001. I wore it to countless interviews, and it boosted my confidence every time. The memories associated with that suit—nervousness, ambition, and moments of self-assurance—held me back from letting it go.
Nowadays, I primarily work from home, often clad in skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a cozy long-sleeve tee. For meetings, I might elevate the look with a chic velvet or corduroy blazer. Perhaps that old gray blazer could pair nicely with my skinny jeans. I just can’t let it go yet.
As I sorted through my clothes, I found a long purple silk skirt and a pink cashmere sweater adorned with flowers. This ensemble was a gift from my mother for my engagement party in 1999. Shopping for my wedding was a joyful distraction for her during her battle with cancer. Sadly, she lost that battle not long after. The outfit holds profound sentimental value; it reminds me of her joy that day as we laughed together in the dressing room of our favorite boutique. I simply couldn’t part with it.
I also contemplated donating a Lilly Pulitzer mini dress, which I wore almost daily on my honeymoon over sixteen years ago. Surprisingly, it was my husband who encouraged me to keep it. This dress features prominently in one of my favorite photographs of us, taken during a stunning sunset in Hawaii. We looked youthful and filled with dreams, a time before the responsibilities of parenthood and homeownership. That dress embodies our innocence and hopes for the future. It’s a keeper for my daughter someday—after all, Lilly Pulitzer never goes out of style.
Another layer to my attachment is the hope that some of these cherished items will return to fashion. I fondly recall my mother lamenting that she wished she had saved her mini-skirts from the ’60s and bell bottoms from the ’70s. She once wore her wedding dress to a themed party because it was the only piece left from that era.
It seems I’m prepared for any decade-themed event, all thanks to my emotional connections to my wardrobe. And you know what? I’m at peace with it. I embrace my attachment to these clothes; they encapsulate memories I’m not ready to relinquish—at least not yet.
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Summary:
This article discusses the emotional challenges of decluttering a wardrobe, highlighting personal attachments to clothing items tied to significant memories. It illustrates the struggle between practical advice for organization and the sentimental value of garments, ultimately embracing the emotional connections that make parting with these items difficult.