As I approach my mid-40s, I find myself navigating this phase of life with a refreshing sense of freedom, especially when it comes to how I dress. On a scorching summer day in the Midwest, I slip into a cotton frock that feels as breezy as a bed sheet. My wife looks at me and quips, “Going full women’s studies professor today, are we?” I shoot her a playful glance above my reading glasses before responding theatrically, “Where are my clogs?” though I’m well aware it’s too hot for them.
The constraints of my past—those towering stilettos, constricting shapewear, and uncomfortable undergarments—are all but a distant memory. It’s almost surreal to reflect on the life I’m living now, one I never dared to dream of during my youth. As a young person, my style was anything but refined, a reflection of the body dysmorphia that shadowed my adolescence. Growing up with parents who scoffed at trends and lived a thrift-minded existence, I felt the weight of being different in an environment where conformity was the norm.
Back in middle school, I was an awkward figure, my body changing much faster than my classmates. I glided through hallways feeling like an outsider—both overexposed and oddly empowered by unwanted attention. Clothes morphed into a means of concealment. Armed with just a couple of beloved jeans, I clung to them like a lifeline amid growing discomfort. Men’s gazes were a source of conflict—frightening yet strangely exhilarating. The fluctuating needs of wanting to stand out while also hiding took a toll, leading to erratic style choices that didn’t quite capture who I was.
Rewind to the early 90s when beauty standards shifted dramatically. Supermodels like Cindy Crawford and Christy Turlington were replaced by the gaunt heroin chic of the 90s, which fed into my developing eating disorder. Fortunately, being queer and raised with feminist ideals provided me with an intellectual toolkit to dissect the societal pressures suffocating me.
By age 14, I began to embrace my own style—shunning conventional beauty norms for a more androgynous aesthetic. Overalls and loose men’s shirts adorned my frame, and I even sported a shaved head. College introduced a new style evolution: knee socks paired with barely-there miniskirts, a mix that earned me both affection and critique from friends. Fashion became a chameleon for my identity, shifting with each group of friends I mingled with and serving well to mask the parts of myself I deemed unacceptable.
As I entered my 20s and faced the trials of addiction, my wardrobe fluctuated wildly alongside my self-image. From preppy intern looks to punk-inspired attire, clothing remained my tool of transformation. After achieving sobriety at 23, my style took on a steadier form, though the diversity of my wardrobe still reflected the complexity of my identity.
Approaching middle age, I had internal dialogues about the styles I would eventually grow into. Would I be relegated to a boring wardrobe of linens and practical shoes, completely abandoned by fashion?
When I met my wife at 36, I was still clinging to my heels. She often asked, “Are you sure you’re comfortable?” with a patience that at times frustrated me. Yet, the year leading up to our meeting had been significant. Following a tumultuous breakup, I chose to embrace solitude. Free from the pressure of romantic expectations, my tastes refined. I reveled in well-crafted pieces that flattered my body—sack dresses, Oxford shirts, and freed myself from the shackles of flattering for the male gaze.
The journey to self-acceptance was not instantaneous; it required years of introspection and therapeutic guidance. But finally, in midlife, I know who I am and feel liberated from the need to disguise myself.
At 43, I find joy in dressing for myself, surrounded by loved ones who want me to enjoy life fully. I’ve discovered that middle age is not the dismal retreat I once pictured; instead, it’s vibrant and full of surprises. The clothing I now cherish reflects a collection of my past selves—each piece resonating with the experiences that shaped me.
This unexpected chapter is marked by a wardrobe that’s rich in variety yet consistent in style, blending new-found confidence with cherished memories. My closet has blossomed in ways I never anticipated, echoing the freedom I once believed I’d lost. Embracing this phase of life, I look forward to what lies ahead, ready for whatever wild adventures aging may bring.