The 40-Year-Old Wardrobe Crisis
What do we do when we hate everything we own?
Every time I look in my wardrobe right now, four fast thoughts flash through my brain:
Where the fuck did I go?
I hate every fucking thing in here.
What the fuck do I wear?
Fuck it, I’ll just wear the same fucking thing again.
I know it sounds dramatic. It probably is dramatic. But that doesn’t make it less true.
I stand there most mornings — towel wrapped around my body, half-cold cup of Earl Grey tea in hand — staring at a collection of clothes that used to fit a version of me I no longer relate to. Some of it’s too tight. Some of it’s too floaty. Some of it screams 2016. And most of it feels like it belongs to someone else.
Because the truth is, I’ve changed.
Not in a cute, quirky “new haircut, you like?” kind of way — but in a deep, cellular, life-has-happened-to-me-and-I-am-not-the-same kind of way. My body is different. My values have shifted. I’ve walked away from things that no longer felt like mine to carry. And now I’m standing in front of my wardrobe, wondering why the fuck I’m still trying to dress like a woman I’ve outgrown.
There’s this weird in-between I’m living in. I’m not the version of myself who wore corporate blazers and pointy-toe pumps to business events, trying to sound more together than I felt. I’m not the twenty-something who bought boob tubes and mini skirts for Saturday nights that ended with too many vodka-lime-and-sodas and sore feet. I’m also not the linen-clad Byron mum with a designer pram and a wardrobe of neutrals (though god, sometimes I wish I was, just for the aesthetic).
I’m here. Forty. Becoming. Unfolding. Blooming. Still a bit undone. And my wardrobe hasn’t got the memo.
And so every morning, it feels like a betrayal. Not just of style, but of identity. I pull on something that technically fits and sort of works, but nothing that makes me feel lit up. Nothing that says, “Here I am—this is who I am now.”
It’s more like: “Here I am… please don’t notice my outfit.”
The thought of starting again is so seductive.
Burn it all. Donate the lot. Strip it down to nothing and rebuild from scratch, piece by intentional piece. But then I remember — I don’t have a stylist, a trust fund, or the time to Marie Kondo the shit out of my personal style right now. I have bills. I have a business I’m rebuilding. I have more questions than answers.
So, where does that leave me?
Somewhere between frustration and curiosity.
Because while I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe, what I can do is get curious about who I’m becoming… and start dressing from that place. Even just a little. Even if it starts with one piece that makes me feel something other than “meh.”
Maybe it’s a vibe check more than a shopping spree. Maybe it’s one tiny, gutsy choice at a time. A bolder lip. A different silhouette. Pairing pieces differently. A reminder that style doesn’t always have to arrive in the form of “new” — sometimes it shows up when we finally start seeing ourselves more clearly.
So I’m starting small.
I’m going to let go of the pieces that feel like guilt, like grasping, like obligation. The ones that whisper:
“You paid too much to give me away.”
“You used to look good in this before your body changed.”
“You can’t afford to get rid of me yet.”
I’m going to fold them gently and say thank you, but no. No more.
I’m going to slowly make space — for pieces that feel like me, now. For things that fit both my body and my becoming. Things that reflect the woman who’s softening and strengthening at the same time. Who wants ease and elegance in the same breath. Who needs clothes I can live in—whether that’s writing, walking the dog, or hosting a workshop where someone cries (usually me).
This isn’t just a wardrobe clean-out: it’s a reclamation.
Because getting dressed shouldn’t feel like a crisis. It should feel like a celebration. An expression. A declaration of who I am and how I want to move through the world.
Who and how I want to be seen.
I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I’m ready to begin again — with curiosity and compassion, not pressure and perfection. I’ll probably wear the same white tank top more times than I care to admit (who am I kidding? I’ve *actually* had to ditch most of them because I’ve literally worn them out). But I’ll also start noticing what makes me feel excited. Alive. Turned on. Vibrant. What makes me feel like me.
And maybe, on some ordinary Tuesday, I’ll look in the mirror, and without hesitation, questioning, doubt or apology, I’ll smile and say —
“There she is.”
Loved this piece? You can always shout me a cuppa to help me keep the words flowing. Tea is my fuel, and your support means the world — truly. ♥ SB x
Love this Sonia! To the woman and wardrobe that is becoming 🥂💖
The underestimated energy shift of a wardrobe cull (or mini cull) really does bring clarity of mind in the most amazing ways. 😘💜