If you’ve ever opened your wardrobe and been personally attacked by a pair of low-rise jeans from 2006 that still think they’re relevant, then welcome. You’re in exactly the right place.
This is the story of my long-overdue, mildly traumatic, accidentally philosophical wardrobe clear-out. A tale of faded identities, body image shifts, and why there was a pleather mini skirt in my cupboard even though I haven’t been to a nightclub since Cher’s last farewell tour.
The Build-Up (a.k.a. The Illusion of Control)
Now, I say this was a big wardrobe clear-out like it’s a rare event, but in truth, I do one every season. Religiously. With bin bags, charity shop runs, and the determination of a woman who swears this will be the year she creates that dreamy capsule wardrobe Pinterest keeps gaslighting her with.
And yet.
My wardrobe remains full. Overflowing, actually. It’s like Narnia, but instead of fauns and snow, it’s just seven black jumpers, three identical Breton tops, and a pair of sequinned leggings I don’t remember buying but am now strangely emotionally attached to.
It All Kicked Off With a Jumpsuit
It always starts with something innocent. I was looking for a white shirt. A clean one. Classic. Timeless. Instead, I got caught in a tangle with a jumpsuit (who designed these things, why the back zip? why??), yanked the whole rail down, and stood in the middle of a clothing collapse that felt symbolic. The cat looked concerned. I put on my playlist (equal parts ragey Taylor Swift and ambient spa music) and decided: today was the day I was going in.
The Categories of Clothing I Discovered
- The Aspirational Pile
Things I bought while under the influence of Instagram, hope, or a very flattering mirror in a badly lit shop. Includes wide-leg trousers I never got hemmed, a neon co-ord for the yacht I don’t own, and a hat that makes me look like a detective on sabbatical. - The Nostalgia Trap
These are the dresses from the years when I still wore heels without a sense of personal betrayal. The jeans that once fit. The tops I wore in my twenties when I thought layering a long vest made me look ‘put together’ instead of ‘confused and warm’. - The “It Might Come Back” Drawer
Fashion delusion lives here. Low-rise jeans (nope), a corset belt (stop it), and several ‘going out tops’ even though my idea of going out now involves strong tea and being home by ten. - The Beige Abyss
A reaction to The Colour Years. Panic-bought neutrals that made me feel grown-up but mostly make me look… mildly unwell. So many oatmeal cardigans. So little actual style.
And Then – The Dress
Hidden behind a coat from a 2011 wedding was a red dress I wore on a date where I drank too many margaritas and spent most of the evening apologising to a potted plant.
And yet, that dress stayed. Because I remember feeling amazing in it. Bold. Unapologetic. Slightly saucy. A version of me I don’t see every day anymore, but still love. Sometimes what you keep isn’t about wearability. It’s about memory. About who you were and who you might still be if the mood (and shapewear) strikes.
What I Let Go
I binned the fantasy. The “someday” sizing. The trousers that made me feel like a stuffed olive. The tops that only worked if I didn’t move, sweat, or breathe. I let go of the clothes that judged me. You know the ones. You put them on and immediately feel like you’ve disappointed someone, probably the younger you who thought kale and daily Pilates were sustainable life choices.
What I Kept
Softness, structure that moves. Joy. Comfort without apology. Clothes that love my actual body. The one with stretch marks and opinions and knees that click. Dresses with pockets. Trousers with waists that forgive. A wardrobe of clothes that says: “You’re doing alright.”
Still No More Space, Though
Here’s the maddening bit. Despite the bin bags, charity drop-offs, and dramatic speeches about “not hoarding lifestyle fantasies,” my wardrobe still looks full, it still groans when I open it. It’s like the fabric breeds overnight.
But now, at least, it’s full of me. Not a collection of women I no longer am, or never was to begin with.
Final Thoughts
Decluttering at 40+ isn’t about minimalism. It’s about permission. To dress for the life you’re living, not the one you think you should be living. To let go of outfits built on shame or fantasy. To give yourself room to breathe, and maybe, finally, to find a white shirt that actually fits and doesn’t feel like a punishment.
And no, I don’t have more space. But I do have fewer clothes whispering “you’ve let yourself go” every time I reach for my joggers.
And that, honestly, feels like freedom.
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Take care, stay safe.
Becks Xo
My life and style over 40 