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- You put on the blue sweater. It smells like him. And for a second, before your brain catches up with your hands, you feel safe. Then the doorbell rings, and you have to decide if you’re going to answer it. Let’s unpack that moment right there. Because I know, if you are listening to this while standing in front of your closet, you might feel a strange kind of guilt. You’re trying to get ready. You’re trying to maintain the rhythm of your day, the illusion that life is moving forward in a straight line. But grief doesn’t work in straight lines. Grief works in spirals. Some days you feel like you’re flying; other days, you can barely lift your arm to reach for a hanger. And today, maybe today feels heavy. Maybe the simple act of choosing what to wear feels like too much. I want you to know that I see you. I see the effort it takes just to exist in your own body when your heart feels cracked open. We talk so much about style as decoration, as armor, as expression. But we rarely talk about style as survival. When someone you love is gone, or when a version of your life has ended, dressing isn’t just about looking presentable. It’s about anchoring yourself to the earth. It’s a tiny rebellion against the chaos. So if you spent twenty minutes staring at three shirts today, that wasn’t laziness. That was you trying to find a version of yourself that could handle the Tuesday ahead. Let’s honor that. In my years working backstage at fashion weeks, surrounded by hundreds of looks changing every minute, I learned that the most powerful thing you can do is subtract. The art of the edit is not just about what you take off; it’s about what you keep because it holds meaning. When you are navigating loss, your emotional bandwidth is limited. You cannot afford the luxury of indecision. So, let’s simplify. Think of your wardrobe as a curated archive of who you are right now, not who you were five years ago. If everything feels too tight, or too loose, or just wrong in a way that makes your skin crawl, that is valid. Your body is holding space for this grief. It is carrying weight. Don’t force it into shapes that don’t fit. Instead, look for the pieces that feel like a hug. The softest cotton. The fabric that doesn’t scratch. The color that reminds you of calm. This isn’t about trends. Trends are fleeting things designed to make you feel inadequate so you’ll buy more. This is about lived-in luxury. It’s about wearing your own skin, literally and metaphorically. When you choose comfort over conformity, you are making a statement. You are saying, 'I am here. I am hurting. And I am still showing up.' There is dignity in that. There is a quiet elegance in admitting that some days, the goal is simply to be warm and covered. Let’s talk about scent for a moment, because it is perhaps the most visceral trigger we have. I remember one client, Elena, who came to me after her husband passed away. She couldn’t bear to throw away his old shirts. They sat in a pile on her bed, accumulating dust. She felt trapped between preserving the memory and needing to breathe in her own space. We didn’t throw them away. We didn’t even necessarily move them far. We talked about the power of association. Scent is linked directly to the limbic system, the part of the brain that handles emotion and memory. It bypasses logic entirely. So, instead of forcing herself to wear his clothes, which felt like a costume, she started wearing her own favorite perfume, but only on specific days. On other days, she wore nothing but unscented lotion. It gave her control back. It allowed her to choose when to engage with the past and when to focus on the present. You might find that certain fabrics hold the scent of the person you lost. That’s okay. But also consider creating new anchors. A new candle. A different soap. Something that belongs solely to you, in this season of your life. You are not erasing the past by adding something new. You are expanding your capacity to hold both. You are learning to carry the love without being crushed by the absence. I want to invite you to a small experiment. Go to your mirror today, but don’t look for flaws. Don’t check for wrinkles, or weight gain, or signs of fatigue. Look at your eyes. Look at the set of your jaw. Acknowledge that you survived yesterday. Acknowledge that you are breathing. When we grieve, our self-image often fractures. We feel invisible, or we feel exposed. We might stop caring about how we look because we don’t think anyone sees us. Or we might overcompensate, putting on full makeup when all we want is a nap. Both are responses to pain. But I want you to try speaking to yourself in the mirror with kindness. Not toxic positivity. Not 'you’re beautiful no matter what.' Just, 'I see you. This is hard. And you are doing a good job.' Tone matters. Speak to yourself as you would speak to your dearest friend. Would you tell her she’s lazy for staying in pajamas? No. You’d tell her she’s resting. You’d tell her she’s healing. Style is an internal state first. If you feel chaotic inside, your outside will reflect that. If you can cultivate even a small patch of peace in how you dress, it ripples outward. It changes how you walk through the room. It changes how people treat you. Wear your own skin, Mercedes-style. Which means, wear it comfortably. Wear it honestly. If today calls for sweatpants and a messy bun, then wear them with your head high. There is no shame in softness. One of the most profound aspects of style is its ability to connect us. We’ve always known this. From tribal garments to court dress, what we wear tells others who we are and where we belong. In times of grief, isolation is the enemy. We want to hide. We want to retreat into the shadows. But connection is medicine. It doesn’t have to be grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s sending a text to a friend that says, 'I’m struggling with laundry today.' Sometimes, it’s asking a colleague to pick up your coffee order. Sometimes, it’s wearing a piece of jewelry that signifies a bond you share with someone else. I had a listener write to me recently, telling me that after her mother died, she started wearing her mother’s silk scarf every Sunday. It became a ritual. A reminder that she was never alone. That thread connected her to a lineage of women who loved her. It grounded her. You don’t need a heirloom to create this sense of continuity. It can be anything. A ring from a grandmother you barely knew. A watch from a mentor. Or even a simple black cardigan that you lend to friends when they are down, becoming a vessel for care. We give each other clothing as gifts of comfort. We wrap ourselves in each other’s support. Lean into that. Let your style be a bridge, not a wall. Let it invite people in, even when you feel like shutting the world out. Finally, let’s talk about time. Grief is not a problem to be solved. It is a landscape to be traversed. There is no finish line where you wake up one day and suddenly feel like 'yourself' again. You become someone new. Someone who has been broken and put back together with gold lacquer, like the Japanese art of Kintsugi. The cracks remain. They become part of the beauty. Your relationship with your body, with your clothes, with your daily routines, will change. It will shift and evolve. Some days you will want to dress up. Some days you will want to disappear. Both are true. Both are necessary. Do not judge yourself for the fluctuations. Trust that you are moving, even if it feels like you’re standing still. The routine itself—the act of getting up, washing your face, choosing your outfit—is a prayer. It is a daily affirmation that you are still here. That you still have agency. That you still have taste. Your taste is not dead. It is sleeping. It will wake up again. Until then, be gentle. Be patient. Keep showing up. The world needs your presence, exactly as it is, messy hair and all. You are enough. You have always been enough. And your style, however it looks today, is a testament to your resilience. Keep going. One hanger at a time. I’m Mercedes McSharry. Thank you for letting me into your morning. Take care of that beautiful, complicated soul of yours. I’ll be right here next week.