There was a time in my life when all I wore were dresses, and then suddenly, I stopped. A part of me that loved those flowy sartorial choices began to resent everything that came with them. Don’t get me wrong—I still shopped for beautiful dresses, but I neatly tucked them away in the back of my closet. The part of me that once cherished the feeling of cotton resting on my skin during hot summer days started viewing those dresses like the clothes we all probably have—the ones we think we’ll wear “someday.” Until then, they stayed hidden beneath more comfortable, practical options. The dresses made my closet prettier, monopolizing on delayed gratification. I believed if I didn’t hit a certain weight bracket, I didn’t deserve to wear them.
Soon enough, dresses became my personal velvet ropes—a symbol of a world I could see but not access, reserved for those who were “worthy.” And what made someone worthy? A number on a scale, a reflection in the mirror, and the offhand comments people made the second they saw me. Time and time again, I’d run into acquaintances or relatives, and the only thing they noticed or commented on was whether I had gained or lost weight since the last time we met. It was as if my entire existence was reduced to a fluctuating number, rather than my personality, passions, or everything else that makes me human. I knew they didn’t mean to hurt me, but it was exhausting, and soon enough, I internalized those expectations.
Shopping for clothes started feeling like window shopping for a life I wasn’t sure I could live. I kept buying dresses, waiting for the day I’d be “good enough” to wear them the way I imagined. That perfect future version of me deserved them—but what about me right now? This past year, I started breaking free from those self-imposed velvet ropes. The self-sabotaging tendencies fell away, replaced by the anger and grief of realizing how much time I had wasted waiting to “deserve” the dresses I loved. I was angry at myself for letting societal expectations hide away what I cherished most, and I grieved for the little girl in me who I used as a punching bag whenever I set unrealistic standards for myself.
As I continued my journey of healing, I met someone at a party while wearing a dress that had once been tucked away in my closet. It hugged my curves just right, and a woman there complimented how it looked. We started talking about body dysmorphia, and she admitted she no longer had the confidence to wear dresses. After our conversation, though, she felt more inclined to try them again. That moment reminded me how so many of us fall into the trap of holding off on joy until we believe we’re worthy of it.
The truth is, fashion, like life, isn’t about what we think we deserve. Clothing is about allowing ourselves to experiment, to try new things without the fear of judgment. Now, I see every dress as an opportunity to express who I am in this very moment, not who I might be tomorrow. While the world around me can still comment on my weight, I’ve made the freeing decision to no longer let that dictate what I wear or how I feel about myself. I know I’m beautiful because the clothes I wear are mine, in the body I have right now, and they fit me perfectly. More importantly, I know I’m beautiful not because I meet some arbitrary standard, but because I’ve finally given myself the grace to believe that I was always enough.