From My Mothers Closet to a Wardrobe of My Own – Vogue

By the time I had reached my teen years, I no longer had access to my moms bedroom as a play space. The expectations of projected masculinity made her room off-limits in this way, and I lost the ability to meet myself in moments in front of the mirror. While puberty began to morph my body, I learned to live in the mask that my parents insisted I wear for the world. Although I never forgot about my own personal Narnia, I wasnt allowed to visit anymore. The older I got, the more I felt pressured to conform to the gender assigned to me, even in my alone time. I was taught to treat my gender identity as an addiction that required rehabilitation and began counting the days, weeks, years between these moments of authenticity as if they were feats of sobriety.

An innocent exploration of self-expression turned to petty theft whenever my mom asked me to drop off donations at the local Goodwill store. Id shove her old tights, leggings, and tank tops into the back of my dresser, where she jokingly told me she avoided out of fear that shed bump into condoms and Playboy magazinesneither of which I possessed. The last time I saw my favorite dress, I hadnt worn it in two years. This time, instead of being displayed in prominence from the walls of my sanctuary, it was carelessly shoved into the depths of an overstuffed, ForceFlex trash bag. It felt like an extension of my parents cruelty, a twisted reminder of a life I couldnt live. Every dress I delivered to Goodwill Im sure was shredded into rags.

I spent almost a full decade after moving out of my parents house denying my gender identity. I got married, had kids, and developed a career while wearing the mask my parents aggressively expected me to embody with manliness. The burden of this false shame and decades of repression had a dramatic impact on my mental health, and I battled through my own debilitating depression, cynicism, and alcoholism. I shrugged and normalized those experiences as if they were typical family heirlooms for too longcreating ripples where my own internalized transphobia impacted my partner, my kids, and other people I loved most. I struggled with repression before finally starting hormone-replacement therapy in 2020, beginning to transition when the pandemic offered time away from the public gaze to explore my authenticity. The space allowed me to heal.

Over the last year, my closet has quickly evolved as I found outfits to reflect my path forward. My wardrobe looks nothing like my mothers, despite my girlhood daydreams that Id someday get to dress just like her. I dont own a gown, and Im not sure Ill ever need one, practically speaking; the pandemic surely hasnt created any opportunities. Instead, I pair baggy sweaters with leggings that make me feel cozy on cold days, lounge in high-waist jumpsuits that accentuate my long legs, and slip into boho dresses that flow with carefree abandon. My womanhood is defined by much more than my wardrobe, but its been nice to finally greet a reflection I know is me in the mirror every day.

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From My Mothers Closet to a Wardrobe of My Own - Vogue