The Stories We Wear

I was asked a lovely question on local radio recently.

"What do clothes mean to you?"

Now, you'd think as a personal stylist and someone who spends most days surrounded by clothes, I'd have had an answer ready. But I hadn't.  I paused for a moment and then realised that, to me, clothes are so much more than something we put on every morning. They're little storytellers. They quietly accompany us through life.

The more I thought about it afterwards, the more memories came flooding back.

If my house was on fire (and before anyone panics, let's imagine my family and the dogs are already safely outside!), there is one thing I know I'd instinctively reach for.

Not my wedding dress.

Not my smartest coat.

Not the most expensive thing I own.

It would be a simple brown silk dress covered in a print of swallows.  I've had it for years. It's been to birthdays, celebrations, dinner parties and family gatherings. It's seen ordinary evenings that turned into wonderful ones and special occasions that I'll never forget.  It's not a designer dress. It's probably not even particularly exciting to anyone else.  But to me...

It feels like home.

And isn't that an extraordinary thing for a piece of clothing to become?

Working in the dress agency has taught me that almost every garment has a story attached to it.  Sometimes those stories make us smile. Sometimes they make us cry.

One lady once brought me a beautiful dress to sell. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it. It suited her, fitted perfectly and looked lovely on.  But she'd had a really painful argument while she was wearing it.  Every time she opened her wardrobe, she was reminded of that day. She simply couldn't bring herself to wear it again.

I've also been entrusted with funeral outfits that had served their purpose, work clothes from careers that had come to an end and dresses bought for celebrations that would never quite feel the same again.

People often think they're bringing me clothes.

Sometimes, I think they're really bringing me memories.

Then there are the happy stories.  A little piece of fabric from one of my mum's skirts that I could never throw away.  My faithful Kew coat that has accompanied me through countless winters and somehow feels more "me" with every passing year.  And my trusty leather Per Una handbag that I rescued from a jumble sale for the princely sum of 20p.

I still remember finding it. I can picture the hall. I remember the excitement. I remember thinking, "How on earth has nobody spotted this?"

Fifteen years later, every time I carry it, I'm reminded not just of the bag itself, but of that happy morning spent treasure hunting.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons I love buying preloved clothes so much.

Every piece arrives with a story before I've even begun making my own.

One of the things I find most fascinating as a stylist is that our wardrobes are really collections of decisions we've made over many years.

There are clothes bought for jobs we've since left. Shoes we danced the night away in. Coats that kept us warm while we watched our children play football on freezing Saturday mornings. Holiday dresses that instantly transport us back to sunshine and sandy feet.

And then there are the pieces we bought because they looked fabulous on somebody else...

A model in a magazine.

A friend.

Someone on Instagram.

We brought them home full of hope.

But somehow they never quite felt like us.  It's one of the reasons so many garments arrive at the dress agency with the tags still attached.  There was nothing wrong with them.  They just never became part of the owner's story.

People often tell me they've got a wardrobe full of clothes but nothing to wear.  I understand exactly what they mean.  Usually, it's not because they need more clothes. It's because life has quietly moved on.  The wardrobe is still holding onto previous chapters.

The young professional.

The busy mum.

The career woman.

The version of ourselves who loved wearing heels every day.

Our clothes are often a few pages behind the life we're living now.

Perhaps that's why I love helping women rediscover their wardrobes.  Not by throwing everything away and starting again.  But by finding the pieces that still feel like home.

The jacket that makes you stand a little taller.

The jumper you reach for every weekend.

The dress that makes you smile before you've even left the bedroom.

Those are the clothes worth building a wardrobe around.

Perhaps that's what coming home to your wardrobe really means. Not owning more clothes, but rediscovering the ones that already know your story.

Looking back, I think the radio presenter asked me the wrong question.  Not because it wasn't interesting.  But because perhaps the better question is this:

Which piece of clothing would you save?

Not because it's expensive.

Not because it's fashionable.

But because it carries a little piece of your life within it.

I know my answer.

It's the brown silk dress with the swallows.

I'd love to know yours.

Victoria's Treasure Hunter Tip

The next time you're standing in front of your wardrobe, don't just ask yourself,

"Do I still wear this?"

Try asking,

"What story does this piece tell?"

Some clothes have finished their chapter and deserve to be passed on for someone else to enjoy.

Others...

Well, some simply feel like home.

Over the next few weeks I'll be talking much more about what it really means to come home to your wardrobe.

Not by buying lots of new clothes.

But by rediscovering the pieces that already know your story.

It's a conversation I'm really looking forward to sharing with you.