As I approach my mid-40s, the evolution in my wardrobe has become a delightful revelation—one of the unexpected perks of growing older. It’s a scorching summer day in the Midwest, and I’m clad in a breezy cotton dress that feels as light as air. My wife, with a knowing smile, comments, “Going full women’s studies professor today, are we?” I glance over my reading glasses, half-jokingly mused about my absent clogs, even though the heat makes them impractical. Each moment brings me closer to a newfound freedom in how I present myself. Gone are the stiletto heels and constrictive shapewear from my youth.
Reflecting on my past, I realize I was never one to follow fashion trends; this was largely influenced by the body dysmorphia I battled since adolescence. Growing up with unconventional parents who cared little for societal expectations, I wore thrift store finds and held a distaste for anything associated with superficial status.
In middle school, I grappled with my changing body, feeling alien in my own skin. I masked my insecurities with clothing—cycling through just a couple of pairs of jeans that I’d convinced myself were the only ones capable of hiding my perceived flaws. On the streets, the attention from men was both foreign and unsettling, igniting a conflicted sense of power within me, shaped by the images portrayed in media.
The early ’90s were years of profound transformation. I idolized supermodels of the day, but as my body developed, beauty standards shifted—ushering in the era of Kate Moss and the embrace of a frailer aesthetic. This distortion only deepened my struggles with food and self-image, but being raised in a feminist household provided me with tools for understanding the societal brainwashing at play.
By 14, I had embraced a more androgynous style, casting off societal norms in my quest for identity. Fashion became a chameleon-like tool, allowing me to navigate various social circles throughout my college years. My clothes reflected the duality of my existence: sometimes I was a carefree student, while other times a rebellious junkie, all dependent on the context.
After overcoming addiction at 23, my style began to stabilize, displaying the eclectic past I had traversed. Still, I drew inspiration from those older than me, fearing that I might lose my unique flair as I transitioned into adulthood. Convinced that middle age would mean surrendering my creative expression to bland, shapeless clothing, I was pleasantly surprised to learn otherwise.
When I met my wife at 36, I was still clinging to my heels, even while questioning my comfort in them. The transformative year preceding our meeting led me to re-evaluate my life choices, dedicating time to self-discovery and appreciating solitude. In this reflective space, I found my aesthetic shifting toward comfort and authenticity.
Midlife, contrary to my earlier assumptions, proved richer than I ever imagined. With a focus on creating deep connections with loved ones and cultivating a sense of self, I shed my past anxieties about external judgment. Now, my style embodies a beautifully cohesive blend of all my lived experiences.
Each piece I choose—from tailored sacks to artful blouses—speaks to my journey and newfound freedom. No longer beholden to fleeting beauty standards, I bask in the luxury of dressing for myself, guided only by the tastes that resonate with my spirit. As I navigate this vibrant stage of life, I find joy in what I wear, liberated from the confines of expectation.
Now, I approach the notion of aging with laughter. My wardrobe, assuming it would narrow with time, has flourished instead. Fashion, once a source of anxiety, has become an avenue of self-expression. With excitement, I anticipate what lies ahead in this exhilarating chapter, knowing that if this is what midlife feels like, the years to come promise to be just as adventurous.