Staring into my wardrobe after another impulse shopping spree, under the guise of self-care, I spotted a pair of peach kitten-heel slides I had never worn.
In there, alongside other never-worn?? clothes, I noticed an unused set of dumbbells and several cookbooks I had purchased four years ago.
I had bought these things because I believed they reflected who I was; someone elegant and fashion-forward. Someone effortlessly flawless, as if she had stepped out from a magazine — never mind the effort it took in reality.
She wore dresses, especially trending ones, had perfect skin, loved cooking and was fit.
A thought that had been lingering in the back of my mind surfaced: "When?" When was I going to turn my fantasy version of myself into a reality.
I am a woman of comfort and convenience
I realised I couldn't answer that question. Well, actually, I realised I could, but the answer was I was never going to.
This drive to be elegant, fit, perfect is, in part, a desire to be seen beyond my disability. My disability has always done two things at once: make me stand out in a room of people, and at the same time, make me invisible as a participant of society.
These "qualities" I imagined myself having felt like things that would make me less disabled and less invisible.
There's just one problem. I am none of those things. I am a woman of comfort and convenience.
I prefer my T-shirts cheap rather than exclusive, because I can throw them in the washing machine instead of arranging a date with a dry cleaner.
I'd rather walk 20 kilometres through a nature reserve or along the beach than be in a gym. I cook based on my mood, not what might tickle everybody's taste buds.
I decided that much of what was filling my wardrobe had to go. Most of the things I had accumulated were based on a fantasy me, living a fantasy life and rather than waiting for that to happen, I wanted to be living my real life now.
I decided to do something I had learnt from Marie Kondo: sort my wardrobe into what brought me joy and what didn't.
Letting go became easier
It was easier said than done. I bought things because I thought they would bring me joy — even the things I had never worn, read or used.
For every two things I let go of, there were three I wanted to hold onto, like my gym clothes, 'just in case' I suddenly became someone who goes to the gym. But eventually I admitted to myself that I'd been holding onto that fantasy for five years.
If I truly intended to pursue this fitter, cooler and more perfect version of me, I would have acted by now.
That's how I learnt to separate real joy from fantasy joy: I looked at what I actually did, not what I imagined myself doing. Once I accepted that, letting go became much easier.
I donated many items, such as my dresses and shoes, to the Salvation Army.
I also listed some pieces online and used the $200 I earned to help pay off my credit card.
Through this process I felt a huge weight of self-imposed pressure shift off my shoulders.
Instead of striving for something unattainable and racking up new debt, I could simply be myself. The self that comes out when nobody is watching. The self that doesn't need external validation and is content with what is.
Learning to know and love my true self
My self-expression now feels free of the lust to be "seen". I've learnt that my real self is revealed in the habits I repeat every day, 365 days a year.
I don't wear makeup during daily outings, at home, or even on important occasions. It's not a philosophical stance; it's just the truth of who I am and how I present myself to the world.
Most of what I wear is made from simple, breathable fibres such as cotton, wool, silk, and linen.
The clothes I wear are a subtle tell-tale sign of who I am at my core: someone who values convenience, time-saving, and mental peace.
Letting go of short-term "fixes" means I have the time to find long-term solutions. I love saving, but saving doesn't always mean money in the bank; sometimes it's something immaterial, like energy, stillness, or headspace.
And with each day that I get to know myself better, I cherish my new-found freedom and "fantasy me" becomes a distant memory.
