Latest / Style Edit: Fashion, beauty & personal style / Wearing Grief: How to Get Dressed When Your Soul is Heavy | Style Edit
Transcript
- You know that moment when you stand in front of the mirror and your own reflection feels like a stranger wearing your clothes? It’s not vanity, it’s just grief making you feel invisible. Let’s be real for a second. Waking up when your heart is broken or heavy with loss is its own kind of labor. The alarm goes off, and before you’ve even opened your eyes, the weight settles on your chest. It’s physical. It’s heavy. And suddenly, the simple act of deciding what to wear feels like climbing a mountain. I remember days after my grandmother passed, where the closet looked like a foreign country. I’d reach for a blouse I used to love, only to pull my hand back as if it burned me. Why? Because that silk felt too loud. That color felt like a lie. I wasn’t dressing for the day anymore; I was dressing for a ghost. And let me tell you, there is no instruction manual for this. Society expects us to snap back into routine by Tuesday, but grief doesn’t care about our calendars. It moves at its own slow, tectonic pace. So today, I want to talk about how to navigate those mornings when getting dressed feels less like self-care and more like survival. We’re going to strip away the pressure to look polished. We’re going to give yourself permission to exist in comfort, even if that comfort looks messy to everyone else. When words fail us, fabric speaks. This is something I learned early on in my vintage studio here in Brooklyn. There is a profound intimacy between skin and cloth. When you are grieving, your senses can feel either numbed or painfully sharp. You might crave the hug-like squeeze of a thick cotton sweater, or you might need the cool, slippery slide of satin because nothing else feels real enough to touch. Listen to what your body is asking for. If softness isn’t available, try structure. Sometimes, when we feel like we are falling apart inside, wearing something structured—a stiff denim jacket, a tailored coat—can provide a temporary skeleton for us to hold onto. It’s not about looking expensive or trendy. It’s about finding a texture that grounds you. Does it feel like you? Or does it feel like armor? Both are valid. In those early weeks, I stopped caring about coordination. I didn’t worry about matching socks or belts. I just wanted things that didn’t itch, that didn’t restrict my breathing, that allowed me to move through the world without feeling exposed. Your clothes should be a sanctuary, not a costume. If that means wearing pajamas until noon, then so be it. The world can wait. Your nervous system needs rest more than it needs a blazer. Here is the tricky part. Some items in your closet might trigger memories you aren’t ready to face. Maybe there’s a dress from a trip you took with someone who is gone. Maybe there’s a perfume that instantly transports you back to a kitchen table that no longer exists. It is okay to remove these items from your daily rotation. You don’t have to throw them away—that’s too final—but you can put them in a box, a drawer, or the back of the closet. Create a boundary. Think of it like tidying up a room while you’re still unpacking boxes. You don’t need to see everything at once. Protect your peace. I had a client once, Sarah, who couldn’t bear to look at her husband’s shirts after he died. She kept trying to wear one, hoping for a spark of connection, but it only brought tears every time. We moved his shirts to a high shelf, out of sight but accessible if she ever needed them. Suddenly, the closet felt lighter. The space felt larger. Give yourself that same grace. Curate your environment to support your healing, not hinder it. Style is just confidence wearing clothes, but right now, confidence looks like protecting your energy. It’s okay to simplify. It’s okay to say, 'Not today.' That is not failure. That is wisdom. Grief disrupts rhythm. Days blur together. But maintaining small, tactile routines can be an anchor. Not big, performative routines. Small ones. The ritual of choosing three items. The act of buttoning a shirt slowly, feeling the thread catch. The sensation of pulling on shoes. These actions ground you in the present moment. They remind you that you are still here, moving through time. I found that during my darkest months, the process of mending clothes became meditative. Sewing a hem requires focus. It requires patience. It slows your heartbeat down. If you can’t sew, maybe it’s folding laundry with intention. Maybe it’s polishing your shoes. Find one small task that connects you to your hands and your body. It pulls you out of the loop of sad thoughts and puts you back in your physical self. You are not just a mind full of sorrow; you are a body capable of creating, fixing, and caring. Use that power, however quietly. Let the routine be a gentle guide, not a strict rule. If you miss a day, forgive yourself immediately. Grief is not linear. Your routine doesn’t have to be either. Let’s talk about the mirror. For many of us, looking in the mirror becomes painful when we are grieving. We see shadows under our eyes, we see tension in our jaw, we see a version of ourselves that looks tired and undone. Stop fighting it. Accept it. Say to your reflection, 'I see you. You look tired. And that’s okay.' You don’t have to love what you see today. You just have to acknowledge it. Trying to force yourself to feel beautiful when you feel broken adds a layer of shame that you don’t need. Instead, aim for neutral. Aim for honest. If you need to cover up, do it. A scarf, a hat, oversized glasses. Use clothing to create a buffer between you and the world if that’s what you need. There is no virtue in suffering publicly. There is no badge of honor in looking exhausted. Protect your vulnerability. If you want to hide, hide. If you want to show up exactly as you are, show up. Both choices are acts of self-respect. Remember, style is not about perfection. It’s about alignment. If your inner state is chaotic, your outer appearance doesn’t need to be crisp. Let them match. Let them breathe together. Eventually, the fog lifts, just a little. And you might notice a small joy returning. Maybe it’s the way sunlight hits a yellow scarf. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of a zipper closing smoothly. Hold onto those tiny moments. They are signs of life coming back. Don’t rush them. Grief ebbs and flows. One week you might feel ready to experiment with bold colors again. The next week, you’ll retreat back to black and gray. This is normal. Do not judge yourself for the fluctuations. You are learning to carry this weight differently each day. My advice? Keep a few go-to pieces that always work. A comfortable pair of jeans. A soft tee. A cardigan that feels like a hug. These are your emergency blankets. When the decision fatigue sets in, they are there for you. You don’t have to reinvent yourself every morning. You just have to show up. And showing up in clothes that make you feel safe is a victory. Celebrate the small wins. Did you get dressed? Win. Did you leave the house? Big win. Did you smile at a barista? Victory. Track these moments. They matter more than any outfit post could ever capture. You are building a new normal, stitch by stitch. Be gentle with yourself today. You are doing better than you think. I’m Eva Perry, and I’ll see you in the next edit. Take care of that beautiful, complicated soul of yours.