My relationship with clothes in 2021
The story began in 2020 when COVID hit, and it was decided that I do non-essential work (a separate, existential question of privilege entirely).
My dutifully planned capsule work wardrobe sat untouched, as workout staples and leggings started working overtime. I’m no stranger to minimalism (having traveled across 31 countries with 1 T-shirt), but in the age of working from home, even my small-ish “outside clothing” closet felt large and overwhelming.
Yet at the same time, my brain found reasons to continue shopping. I was spending more time at home, but carved out time to head to a different type outdoors. I now “needed” a camping wardrobe — clothes that were warm, comfy, and ok to get dirty. These were descriptions that could apply to any variety of older clothing accumulated over the years — my college sweatshirt (or any college-branded gear from when that was I all wore exclusively…), ski layers, and company-branded swag. But no — I HAD to have outside clothes for the camp aesthetic. I convinced myself seriously that I needed a flannel shirt, boy jeans with deep pockets (pockets that mysteriously don’t exist for women), sherpa slip-ons, thicker layers for winter camping, and all-weather shorts with deep pockets. This list, although short on paper, left me feeling out of control at the end of 2020. We were in the middle of a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic for goodness sake, and I was still shopping to fulfill some kind of … manufactured need?
Enter March 2020. The commutes went away, work became home, home became work, and all types of routines and boundaries went out the window. I first invested time into the sourdough life, then continually upgraded my cooking / baking efforts. Towards the end of the year, I ended up thrifting some pillow stuffing (poly fill) and decided to create a few dog beds for my pup for use at home and at camp. I needed a robust hand stitch that wasn’t going to fall apart easily, so this led me to (finally) learning how to do a backstitch by hand (the backstitch is one of the stronger stitches to do by hand). The dog beds stayed intact, and armed with my newfound confidence in the backstitch, I turned my attention to more robust projects.
The beginning of 2021 provided, in so many ways, a brand new start. Leaving 2020 in the rearview, I wanted to find little ways to make my footprint (or in this case, leave less of one) in 2021 outside of my usual work / family / friends domains. So I started the year with a challenge:
Do not buy new clothes in 2021. If I want something new, I’d have to make it.
I first became interested in DIY projects back in 2014. I can’t recall the first catalyst, but it must have been around a pair of pants that didn’t fit me quite well and I had looked into darts as a way to solve my problem of: pants fitting in the thighs + calves, but not the waist. (I still haven’t gotten darts to really work for me after all this time).
This interest turned into the overly optimistic idea that I would fight the WIC and make my own wedding dress from scratch. At this point in time, I only knew how to do one type of hand stitch, and the eventual monstrosity of the wedding skirt comprised of tulle, elastic, and a weak running stitch was a colossal failure (Still, I only spent $200 on the dress I ended up wearing, a fraction of the average cost of a wedding dress in the US, which came out to be about $30/hour for the amount of time it was ever worn).
In the intervening years, I occasionally looked at DIY blogs and daydreamed of making my own creations. It never seemed like there was enough time, between working, commuting, cooking, and exercising. Not to mention I hadn’t quite upgraded my skills from a hand running stitch.
But in the silver linings of COVID, I was presented with the gift of time, and in turn, the space to develop some life skills outside of meeting scheduling and document writing.
Sustainable fashion has increased in popularity over the past many years, with DTC brands selling more and more clothing labeled as “sustainable”. But what does that actually mean? I think I struggle with these brands (and the price tags) because the underlying messaging still hasn’t changed:
Buy simple. Buy minimalist. Buy sustainable. Buy organic.
Buy more (because what you have is not enough)
Very few retailers emphasize the messaging of repair, the messaging of “Yes, you DO have enough”. In most cases, the whole garment doesn’t stop functioning, only a part of it. Yet when there’s a hole, a rip, or any kind of imperfection, we’re quick to toss it out and replace with a new, whole item. Have we ever stopped to wonder where that “it” goes? (to the landfills, to the incinerator, to creating more waste) And in the age of the pandemic, how much more do we actually need?
Patagonia, with its Worn Wear program, has been a strong inspiration of mine for some time. The premise is simple and seemingly antithesis to a clothing brand: repair what’s broken instead of selling something new. And yet, I find something beautiful in the repairs. Pre-Covid, they would travel and offer workshops to help customers mend gear that, had the customers tossed them out, resulted in a new sale. Instead, they teach customers how to do simple mends and often take back old pieces to create new ones and save that item’s trip to a landfill. Some of the statistics on fashion, especially fast fashion, are mind-boggling, from its impact on CO2 emissions, to the trees we’re cutting down, and to the water that we are polluting. Then there’s the other side of the equation in human labor; how much is someone getting paid if a retailer can sell you a polyester top for $5?
When we actually think about where our clothes or our food or our Amazon deliveries come from, it can be sobering and also daunting — with all these effects that seem so much larger than what one person can do, where do we even start?
We start small, with our individual actions and behaviors. We start somewhere, anywhere. I started this year.
I think of the holes in my favorite travel T shirt (the same singular one I traveled with) and although massively hole-y, would not toss out for all the stories that shirt could tell. Instead, I visibly mended the holes. They’re there, but they’re mine.
This is not the first time I have attempted to buy less. But I’m happy to say that I’ve been consistent with my challenge so far this year — I’m not allowed to buy new things, but I CAN make new pieces to trick my brain, nurture the side of maker side of me, and keep fabrics out of the landfills and in use for a longer life.
The theme of my challenge is “Repair. Rewear. Relove.” and I keep photo diary of my adventure to remind me that the journey itself, with all the imperfections in my sewing, is to be celebrated.
Since the beginning of this year, I have
- Created a summery crop tank top entirely from scratch fabric (learned how to eyeball + cut shapes — I’m still terrible with measuring and straight lines)
- Gleefully (or tentatively) ripped apart some seams in a cable knit sweater to open up the neckline and convert into a crop
- Fully took apart a pair of old mens jeans and used the pieces to create overalls
- Added a side pocket to my favorite leggings
… among others.
I have learned how backstitch in straight(ish) lines, how to rip seams apart in a knit sweater, and how to deconstruct a pair of jeans to tailor the waistband to my body shape. I have appreciated how much time it takes to manually do all these things by hand, and I have slowed down the world through each stitch created or seam ripped. I have poked my fingers and drawn blood too many times to count. I have felt joy in making a well-loved item even more loved and functional (leggings without pockets, I’m looking at you). Stitches moving in and out have become my version of therapy over the past few months.
Above all, I’ve felt a sense of empowerment through my journey in creating and tailoring my own clothes. No more will I have to settle for something that I like off-the-rack, but doesn’t quite fit. I have a closet full of “office clothes” and “non-office clothes” that, if well taken care of, likely will last many many years to come. I feel less compelled to “throw out” something that is ripped, stained, or broken — my first instinct is to fix or mend it.
When the option of “I’ll just get a new one” is no longer an option, we learn to take cherish what we already have even more.
