Latest / Style Edit: Fashion, beauty & personal style / Grief, Groceries & Getting Dressed: Keeping It Together | Style Edit
Transcript
- I spilled coffee on my white linen shirt this morning, and instead of panicking like I usually do, I just sat there in the kitchen and cried into the fabric. It’s strange how the things that used to make us feel polished now feel like impossible mountains when your heart is still breaking. Let’s be real for a second. We talk so much about big moments in fashion and style—the weddings, the galas, the first dates where you’re trying to impress someone new. But today, I want to talk about the Tuesday mornings. The ones where you have to choose between a soft sweater or a structured blazer, not because one looks better, but because one feels like armor and the other feels like surrender. Navigating grief while trying to maintain daily routines is a quiet, exhausting kind of performance art. You are performing normalcy for the barista who asks for your order. You are performing productivity for the emails you can’t quite focus on. And most importantly, you are performing self-care for the mirror that no longer recognizes the person staring back at you. When I lost my father last year, I stopped caring about color theory entirely. My closet became a graveyard of options I couldn’t bear to touch. I remember standing in front of it for twenty minutes, paralyzed by the sheer volume of choice. Every button-down felt like a reminder of a board meeting I’d missed. Every pair of jeans felt like they belonged to a version of me that existed before everything fell apart. I eventually ended up wearing the same gray cashmere cardigan for three days straight. It wasn’t stylish. It wasn’t curated. But it was soft, and it smelled faintly of cedar, and it held me together when nothing else would. There is no shame in the uniform of survival. If what gets you through the day makes you feel safe, then that is the only right answer. One thing I’ve learned in my vintage studio here in Brooklyn is that texture speaks when words fail. When language feels too sharp, too jagged, we retreat into our senses. For me, that meant seeking out fabrics that felt grounding. Heavy wool coats with substantial lapels. Silk scarves that slipped against my neck like cool water. Cotton that breathed with my chest. When you are grieving, your body often feels like it’s floating away from you, disconnected and numb. Clothing can act as an anchor. It reminds you that you are physical, that you occupy space. I’m not saying wear black to mourn. I’m saying wear something that feels like a hug from the outside in. Does it feel like you? Or does it feel like you’re hiding? Sometimes hiding is exactly what you need, and that’s okay. We live in a culture that demands we always look put-together. Social media feeds are full of women who seem to wake up looking airbrushed, ready to conquer the world. But let’s be honest about the messiness of loss. Some days, your hair won’t brush out. Your makeup will slide off your face because your skin is too dry or too oily. Your posture might slump under the invisible weight of absence. Style is just confidence wearing clothes, but what if your confidence is currently tied up in knots? What if your confidence is whispering that you’re not enough? On those days, style isn’t about looking expensive or trendy. It’s about dignity. It’s about washing your face, brushing your teeth, and putting on clean clothes simply because you deserve to be treated with care, even when you can’t treat yourself that way yet. I’ve started keeping a small box near my dresser. Inside are a few specific items: a pearl earring my grandmother wore, a silk ribbon from a dress I loved, a pair of socks with little stars on them. When I can’t decide what to wear, or when I feel completely untethered, I open the box. I don’t necessarily wear all of it. Sometimes I just hold it. It’s a ritual of reclamation. It’s a way of saying, 'I am still here. I still have things that belong to me.' These objects are tiny anchors to a life that continues. They remind me that joy hasn’t disappeared; it’s just resting. It’s waiting for me to be ready to pick it up again. You don’t have to force joy. You don’t have to rush back to who you were. But you can curate small moments of comfort that signal to your nervous system that you are safe. Here is the gentle challenge I offer you today. Give yourself permission to pause. If you need to stay in sweatpants for a week, do it. If you need to skip the shower and just splash water on your face, do it. If you need to wear sunglasses indoors because the light hurts your eyes, do it. Grief is not a linear process, and neither is healing. It comes in waves. Some days you’ll feel strong enough to wear heels and go out for dinner. Other days, you’ll feel fragile enough to need a weighted blanket and silence. Both states are valid. Both states are part of the journey. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re falling behind. You are moving at the speed of your own soul. That is the only pace that matters. In our last episode, we talked about lighting—how natural light creates intimacy and warmth, while harsh artificial light can flatten us. I want to circle back to that idea, but apply it to your internal landscape. Grief casts long shadows. It changes the way you see yourself. But shadows only exist because there is light. Your pain is proof that you loved deeply. Your exhaustion is proof that you kept going. Allow yourself to be in the shadow sometimes. Rest in it. Let it soften you. And when you are ready, step into the light again, not to hide the scars, but to show that you survived them. You are not broken. You are becoming. And becoming is a messy, beautiful, chaotic process that deserves your tenderness. Thank you for letting me sit with you in this space. Be gentle with yourself today. You are doing better than you think. Until next time, I’m Eva Perry. Take care.