When I think of the money I’ve spent on clothes, it feels almost ludicrous. A quiet shame washes over me. So many of them lie untouched, hanging in my closet like forgotten dreams. Each one was bought with a vision—a place I might go, an event I might be invited to, people I might meet, a life I might step into. And yet, those moments never arrived.
Were they just clothes? No. They were symbols of hope—hope that I’d turn heads, that I’d land my dream job, that I’d find my perfect match. Each fabric held an unspoken wish, an expectation stitched into its seams. We shop and shop, filling our wardrobes and emptying our pockets, believing that dressing the part will manifest the reality we desire. But when I open my closet now, I don’t feel pride or excitement. I feel weighed down, like a traveler carrying a trunk filled with memories of roads never taken.
Each piece whispers a story. The ones I have worn take me back—to places, to moments, to a love now lost. I see him in the folds of a dress I once wore on our dates, in the fabric of a coat that brushed against his hand. I remember the laughter, the fights, the patch-ups, the naïve dreams we wove together. And with them, the weight grows heavier, pressing down like a boulder on my chest.
I am sinking.
And the only way to rise again is to let go. To give away the ones that no longer serve me, to allow them to be worn by someone who will dance in them, celebrate in them, breathe new life into them. The weathered jeans, the brocade gown, the tulle skirts—they deserve a story beyond the darkness of my wardrobe. If clothes had feelings, I dare not imagine their sorrow. But perhaps, in setting them free, I, too, will feel lighter.
Perhaps, I will breathe again.
These are hard-earned life lessons. So much of my salary has disappeared into fabrics—silks, sequins, brocades, each stitched with fleeting dreams. What if I get invited to a grand party? What if there’s a wedding where I must stand out? Oh, I’ll need a brocade gown, a sequin masterpiece, something just like that actress wore in that film. And of course, one in Barbie pink—precisely Barbie pink—with the perfect accessories to match. A beaded clutch? Yes, that too.
And yet, as I stare at these unworn ensembles, I wish I had saved that money instead of letting it slip away on clothes, perfumes, and overpriced lattes. They are no longer luxuries; they are silent reminders of crushed dreams and the person I never became.
Do we really need so many saris? Even some of you as married women, do you? Our generation no longer wears them as our mothers did—to college, to work, to everyday life. And all those blouses—more than ten pairs are excess. If none match, a crop top works just fine. You don’t need heaps of costume jewelry—the oxidized trinkets, the jhumkas, the bangles, or the statement necklaces from Sarojini Nagar. They may dazzle for a moment but hold no real value. Instead, invest in gold—it won’t just shine but will stand by you in times of need. And stilettos? If they sit unworn, they’ll crack and fade, just like forgotten dreams. A sheer waste of space, money, and fleeting desires. But these fabrics do more than fill my closet. They whisper, they taunt. Constantly reminding me of the money lost, the dreams deferred, and the lingering question—what was I trying to prove?
Epilogue: So why did I write this? Why all this emotion over mere clothes, jewelry, and shoes? They’re just things, aren’t they? But they were never just things to me. They were symbols—of hope, of longing, of the life I thought I’d have. Of the person I wanted to become. Maybe nothing went terribly wrong, but maybe nothing went exactly right either. Maybe that’s why I feel this weight, this strange regret. But regret is pointless. Life isn’t meant to be lived looking back at receipts and unworn outfits. It’s meant to be enjoyed, experienced, felt.
So, here’s to letting go. Here’s to embracing what’s ahead. The clothes, the jewels, the stilettos—they were never the dream. I AM.