For as long as I can remember I have known which clothes feel good on me.
My very first memory of life is being snuggled into a little stroller; it’s very hazy. It’s cold, but I’m warm. My mom is near; I just know this though I don’t see her. A lot of adults are around and something is about to happen. We are waiting for it. We are ready to jump the moment it happens.
It turns out this memory is from my parents’ sorghum-making days—and it did take a village and it was before dawn and I was warm in an umbrella stroller with my mom right nearby. (And the anticipation was because as soon as the mixture hit the boiling point it had to be put into another pan, and it took 4-5 people to do this task.)
Secondly, I remember being placed into something purple…and frilly…and flowered…and I hated every second in it and felt fake.
Apparently, I was about 1 year old and my mother had to sneak my Snoopy t-shirt and blue or red sweatpants into the wash or I’d never let them off my body. I remember knowing that those clothes felt like me.
Thirty-nine years later I’m still singing the same tune. Our bodies change and our view of the world changes and that affects what we wear but at the heart of it our clothes should feel like us—they should tell our story.
Our clothes tell our traumas and our triumphs; they bear our fears and are with us as we move though time—they change as seasons do and before long we’ll say “Where did that favorite sweater ever go anyway?”
If we’re fortunate these days, we can hand our clothes down to keep our stories going. It is my hope to provide you with clothes that feel like you now and will last to tell your story later.