Moths had infested my clothes closet.1 I told myself the problem wasn’t that bad. For months, I implemented half-measures: cedar discs, vinyl bags, white-girl magic. I let the dry cleaner repair tiny holes in my sweaters, as if that would be an end to it. I cursed those moths, and killed them too.
But the little buggers persisted…and the problem only grew worse.
Like J. Robert Oppenheimer, I recognized an inevitable moment had arrived, the moment I would need to deploy a nuclear option, which involved removing and cleaning every single item in my over-stuffed closet, followed by hanging no-nonsense moth traps, cedar planks saturated with a repellant, and lavender spray, which these moths hate.
I recoiled from the task, not because it was dull and burdensome (although, yes), but because I knew this would force me to purge more than a decade’s worth of professional attire that I’d worn to office jobs, back when I led a very different life, immersed in a punishing commute and high-pressure work that entailed long, exhausting days.
Every skirt, blouse, and blazer that I no longer had rational reasons to wear (pencil skirts at the dining room table? I don’t think so) was saturated with memories. Each article of clothing carried its own mood corresponding to the days I felt marginally in control, the days I’d had triumphs, and the days I felt beaten down, humiliated, and terribly depressed…
The days I had blistering migraines, painfully dry eyes, bone-deep exhaustion…
The days I dreamed of quitting but couldn’t, dreamed of living my life differently, but wasn’t sure how…
My clothing, My self…A woman’s office wardrobe is an emotional minefield.
And as we all know, strong emotions leave indelible impressions that are hard to forget, harder still to put into perspective.
I’d left my closet alone for nearly five years since my last “real-world” job. I’d put off coming to terms, not simply with the memories within, but with the notion of who I was and what I needed all those years ago—and how much had changed.
Normally, I’m the kind of person who does not hold onto “stuff.” I’m forever cleaning out drawers and other closets; donating, recycling, tossing. I abhor clutter.
And yet, I’d taken a pass on my small, walk-in closet. I was never quite ready to throw away the wardrobe that had so clearly defined a version of myself for so many years.
Until the moths forced my hand.
And then the reckoning was upon me. Suddenly, my old self was draped on hangers, sheathed in dry cleaner’s clear plastic. The clothes still evoked sharp memories, yet already they were no longer truly mine, poised to begin life in someone else’s closet.
I’m finding the letting go—underway as I write this—harder than expected. I’m not prone to sentiment or nostalgia, especially where my own life is concerned. I’m quite hard-nosed about these things.
And yet…this feels funereal. As if I’m truly losing someone I knew a good long while, someone I respected and who also exasperated me with her insecurities, perfectionist tendencies, and deep-seated need for recognition.
I don’t want to be her, in those clothes.
But I’ll miss her, nonetheless.
But also, in many ways, I’m not her, not anymore. And her wardrobe doesn’t suit me (let alone fit me).
Good riddance, right?
I love a clean slate. Always have.
Which brings me to figuring out how this dual-edged sword—wanting to hang on and let go at the same time—affects my notions about creativity.
Well, you know the saying: Kill your darlings. If not your old wardrobe, then the words and scenes and notions in your text that are not serving your story.
Kill your darlings. Easy to say, difficult to honor.
Just as I’m undergoing the closet purge, I’ve also received feedback from three experts on the first page of my unpublished novel. They don’t actually say, “Kill your darlings,” nor do they advise me to cut or purge or generally clean house.
But their subtext is clear: Make changes. Alter sentences and syntax and mood. Give the reader a bit more emotion, more inner life, more hints at revelations to come.
Put another way, I’m being asked to adjust my literary wardrobe, to experiment with combinations of color and texture that may work better than what I’ve put on, er, written.
The words I originally wrote are like the contents of my pre-purged closet: a snapshot of me at a particular point in time, a way of representing myself to the world, a way of saying: Here’s who I am, who I need to be right now. Here’s my story.
But truth emerges through editing.
We edit the self we present to the world as we evolve over time, just as we edit the original text we’ve created to shape it into something it needs to become.
I’ve edited the hell out of that closet. And now, I guess need to edit the hell out of my book.
It won’t be easy. Letting go is so, so hard.
But I will, at least, permit myself the grace to mourn and perhaps even celebrate early incarnations, since without them, we could never push onto where—or who—we need to be next.
Truly, I don’t need those structured blazers anymore.
The main image accompanying this essay was generated by CoPilot, a free AI search tool. The text is 100% human-made, and always will be. I believe in full disclosure.
What a beautiful essay! This goes so deep with such a light touch. I love the idea of the clothes being ready to start a new life somewhere else - that makes the idea of pruning my closet (and the rest of my apartment) much easier. As for pruning the book, as always, my undying admiration for authors. To put words to a blank page is inconceivable for me; to then kill your darlings even more so. I'm a narrator, so I am an interpretive artist, not the creating voice. Bless you for your amazing artistry and the rigor you bring to your craft.
I absolutely love the honesty and self-reflection you bring to these essays.