The Fitting Room

I feel like I’ve just spent the last year or more shopping for something that fits and feels right, but never quite finding it. I’m not talking about shopping in the physical sense—I’m referring to the psychological. A search for “self,” but a levelled-up version. And it’s something we’re all continuously doing in our lives as we grow, experience, and change. Think of it like this: you have a rough idea of where you want to go and who you want to be. You walk into the store with a moodboard in your mind—some version of yourself that feels aspirational, evolved, maybe even a little mysterious.

So you start trying things on.

Some pieces look stunning on the hanger. They shimmer with potential. You slip them over your shoulders and admire the silhouette. For a moment, you think, this could be it. But then you move. You sit. You breathe. And something feels off. The fabric scratches. The seams tug. You’re not sure if it’s discomfort or just unfamiliarity, so you wear it a little longer. You convince yourself it might soften with time. (You might even have someone else whisper to you how great it will feel if you just give it time to mould to you after you “wear it in”.)

Other pieces feel like costumes—borrowed identities that look good on someone else but never quite settle into your skin, because you wear them to fit in, to impress, to survive. You wear them because someone you love or whose opinion you truly value, once said they’d suit you. You wear them because you’re still figuring out what your style even is.

And then, slowly, you begin to notice the difference between what looks good and what feels like home.

So you start choosing with your body, not your eyes. You reach for textures that soothe, shapes that let you breathe. You stop asking, Does this make me look like I’ve got it together? and start asking, Can I move freely in this? Can I laugh, cry, stretch, rest?

Coming back to self isn’t about finding the perfect outfit. It’s about recognising the ones that never fit to begin with. It’s about walking out of the fitting room—not with something new, but with a clearer sense of what you’re no longer willing to wear. It sometimes is picking up some of the old pieces that fit really well, and pairing them up with some of the new.

For me, this return has been quiet. It’s shown up in small rituals: the way I curate my space, the music I pair with my writing, the softness I offer myself when plans fall away. It’s in the way I honour my dreams—not just the ones I sleep through, but the ones that tug at me in the daylight. It’s in the way I show up for my children, my animals, my art. It’s in the way I’ve stopped trying to be impressive and just been okay with being honest and true.

There’s a kind of power in that. A quiet, grounded kind. The kind that doesn’t need applause, just alignment.

So if you’re in the fitting room right now—surrounded by choices, unsure of what fits—know that you’re not lost. You’re just learning your shape. It all doesn’t have to happen at once and it’s okay to keep some things from the past that was really “you” and add only a few things on a time. Just know that when you do step out, you won’t be wearing someone else’s story. You’ll be wearing your own.