SEASON 1 F'25 STORY 3- The Wardrobe Of Me
00:00:00 Welcome: Welcome back. I'm Melanie and this is UNfashioned, a podcast about identity, midlife and unravelling what no longer fits. In the last episode, we talked about letting go, the ritual of release, and the beauty of saying goodbye to things that no longer serve us. But what comes next after the ashes settle? Who are we without the things we've been shedding? And how do we figure out what's real underneath? That's what this episode is about. The roles and personas and costumes we've worn just to belong. You know, I used to think if I looked the part, I would feel the part. But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn't dressing for me anymore. I was dressing for the approval and acceptance of others.
00:00:56 The Roles I Wore: My closet has always been more honest than I was. If I lined up all the clothes I've worn throughout my life, I could probably trace the stories of who I was trying to be. In high school, it was the nineties. Khakis and preppy polos were in that perfect 'The Gap' aesthetic. But truthfully, I always felt a little different even back then. I was drawn to pieces that were rebellious, like crop tops and belly chains. Those were the moments I felt most like me. They were a little bold, a little off script, and a little ahead of whatever the trend was trying to tell us who to be at that time. In college, my style adjusted to the environment. In my art studio classes, I dress for movement and comfort. I had painted splattered jeans and overalls for my art classes, and I wore steel toed boots to my sculpture classes. They felt like comfort and freedom and I felt so artistic and so myself in them. But then there was also my sorority side, the girl that conformed to the rules of fitting in. I had to be perfectly polished and coordinated with a smiling face right on cue. It was the place where individuality was a risk that I had to take. After that came grad school, where I was getting my MFA in fashion, and I was surrounded by people obsessed with fashion labels, trends, wealth, and status. But something in me shifted there. While everybody else was chasing what was next, I was always drawn to some stuff that had a story, something that had, you know, meaning. And for the most part, while I was in school, I stayed true to myself and I shut out the background noise. I dress for comfort and creativity, and I really allowed my artistic work to speak for me. You know, that was probably the most creative time in my life. But that got lost in my designer years in New York City. I wore high heels, like, almost every day, and I walked for miles in those heels. I refer back to this time as my power phase. I always wanted to look like I was dressed for credibility and approval. Perfectly on trend or right above the trend. Each morning I built an armor to protect myself from such a critical, cutthroat industry. Every outfit said I have my life put together. I got this, and I am completely capable. But you know, at night when I peeled it all off, I felt so empty. Like I built a life that looked perfectly beautiful and interesting on the outside, but it never really quite fit on the inside. When I left NYC, I was ready to slow down and to trade a successful career for something that was softer, something that was more real. And I became a housewife in a small village in Belgium. It couldn't have been more opposite to my life in New York City. I traded deadlines for laundry and meetings for cooking meals. And, you know, for a while it felt like such a relief. And then I became a mother, and I wrapped myself in comfort. I wore yoga pants and soft t-shirts, and I had a messy bun, and I called it freedom at the time. But really, it was just another uniform. Because even in that stillness, I was performing a different kind of perfection. I poured myself into creating a home, in being kneaded, into being the steady one. It gave me a sense of purpose, of control and of comfort. And in that devotion, I slowly disappeared. I became a walking reflection of everyone else's happiness in my life. My daughter's laughter, my ex-husband's career, my home's appearance. It all became a mirror. The structure that once felt safe started to feel like a cage I built myself, even though no one asked me to stay inside it. I already lost and had given up so much of myself. I didn't know how to leave. Isn't it strange when we begin to see how the things that once made us feel so safe can slowly become the things that keep us small?
00:06:09 The Mirror: One morning I caught my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment I actually didn't recognize myself. The woman staring back at me looked like someone else's idea of me, a collage of expectations all stitched together and called a life. And I realized I had gone numb. I was just a walking shell. I was checking all the boxes but my own. I was measuring my worth in everyone else's comfort. That's when it hit me. I had been treating my identity like a wardrobe. Trying things on. Adjusting and layering. Wearing what I thought the world wanted me to be. It took me so long to realize that I could take this all off any time. Every label, every role, every story that no longer feels like home. I can unravel right in the middle of my life. Right in the middle of my day. It's not in the falling apart kind of way, but the evolving kind of way. I can shed and unravel and start again as many times as it takes to feel real. That's probably what it really means to come home to yourself, to stop trying to look like who you were, and to start remembering who you actually are.
00:07:49 The Reawakening: After that morning, something inside me changed. It wasn't loud or sudden. It was kind of quiet, like waking up really slowly. At first, I really didn't know what to do with the space I created, but little by little, I started to find myself again. Not by reinventing, but by remembering. I realized I spent so much energy trying to control outcomes, to dress my life in the illusion of stability. But control never kept me safe. It only kept me small. And this is when I began to unravel in an evolving kind of way. Thread by thread, I loosened the fabric of my own expectations and those layers came undone. Tiny holes appeared in the surface. They were small and imperfect and honest places where the air could touch my skin. It was really uncomfortable at first. It felt very raw and unfamiliar. But there was something really sacred about it too. Because when the air touched my skin, I could finally feel again.
00:09:23 Listener Reflection: I think that's the perfect place to end this story. But before we go, I want you to think about the roles you've worn in your life. Ones that made you feel safe or kept you small. Ones that looked beautiful on the outside but never really quite fit. Because under all the fabric roles and expectations, there's always you. Soft, steady and still here. And if you want to share what this brings up for you the roles you've outgrown or ones you're still trying to understand, I would really love to hear from you. Please feel free to message me on Instagram or leave me a voice note. You can also comment on my website or email me if it's more personal. I will definitely link and list all the ways you can contact me below, because this is what this space is for.
00:10:29 Closing: I'm Melanie, and you've been listening to UNfashioned. A podcast about unravelling what no longer fits, and rewearing what was always real. So, if today's story brought something up for you, maybe a memory or a version of yourself you haven't thought of in a while. I hope you hold it gently, because everything we've worn has led us here today. It all belongs to our story. And join me next week for my fourth story. But until then, wear something that feels like truth.