A Closet Full of Questions

Every time a school holiday starts (which, if you work in education, is every 9 to 10 weeks like clockwork), I get a familiar kind of itch. Not the relaxing, stretch-out-on-a-lounger-and-read-a-book kind. More like a strange jitter that whispers, “Buy something. Fix something. Reorganise your life.”

At first, I thought it was freedom calling. But now I’m pretty sure it’s just my nervous system short-circuiting without a to-do list.

Work gives me rhythm, structure, predictability. And I…surprise, surprise… actually thrive in that. Because outside of work? I can be chaos in a cashmere cardigan.

The moment I enter holiday mode, I start plotting spontaneous outings to shops, cafés, and restaurants like I’m auditioning for a lifestyle vlog no one asked me to film. I convince myself I need things. A new pair of sandals. A dress I’ll definitely wear to that one imaginary event. A lipstick in a shade called “Persuasive Plum.” Do I need it? Probably not. But am I emotionally invested? Absolutely.

My wardrobe is a silent monument to this cycle. Two entire closets, four meters wide, 2.3 meters high, stuffed with seasonal rotation logistics that would overwhelm a small airport. I’ve got a summer collection, a winter collection, a “just in case I become a film noir detective” collection. And yes, it’s a little embarrassing.

Every time I do a closet clear-out (which is, coincidentally, never), I hold up items I’ve worn once in 2016 and think: “This could be cute again. Maybe I just need the right belt.”

Why is it so hard to let go? Maybe I’m not just holding onto the clothes, I’m holding onto potential me. Skinnier me. More confident me. Me with better lighting and somewhere fabulous to go.

I once fantasised about hiring someone to make outfit sets from my closet, photograph them, and hang Polaroids on the doors so I wouldn’t have to think. Just spin the wheel. Instant chic. No mental load.

But behind the fabric and seams hides a bigger question: who am I dressing for? Do I actually love this hoody or silk blouse, or do I love what I hope it makes me look like to someone else?

Instagram is no help. One day it tells you to embrace your body and stop consuming. The next day it’s selling you linen jumpsuits worn by women with sun-kissed shoulders and oat milk in their fridge. I try to walk the line between… self-worth and the summer sale at stores that whisper “timeless” but scream “credit card bill.”. So yeah It’s… complicated.

I’ve tried online shopping restraint techniques. I fill my cart, then leave it. If I forget what was in there after a week, I take it as a sign I didn’t really want it. But I’ve also stood in changing rooms whispering financial affirmations while holding a Reiss pantalon like it might solve my entire life.

Style-wise, I fluctuate between “boardroom seduction” and “tomboy from a Wes Anderson movie.” It’s a spectrum, really.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay. Maybe I don’t have to justify every purchase with some deeper wound I’m trying to patch. Maybe I can accept that I’m a work-in-progress who occasionally heals by buying a well-cut pair of trousers.

Because truth be told? I’ve come a long way. I know myself better now. I see the patterns, I question the urges and I still sometimes press order now. Growth and contradiction: my two favorite accessories.

So yes, I might spend part of this holiday reorganising my closet. But I’ll also drink coffee, read in the sun, laugh with friends, and remember that who I am isn’t hanging in a wardrobe.

(Though I might still buy that pantalon. For closure.)