When Being “Put Together” Starts to Feel Heavy

Lately, I’ve been thinking about clothes.

Not fashion.
Not trends.
But the kind of clothes we quietly stop wearing as we grow up.

I realised that I no longer wear torn, faded, or discoloured clothes, not because I have excess money, but because I have accumulated more than enough. Everything I wear is neat, presentable, and occasion-appropriate. I am almost always “put together.”

And that realisation made me pause.

Growing Up with Less, But Enough

As a child, I wore the same clothes again and again. New clothes came only when something was truly needed, not simply wanted. Buying clothes depended on my parents, their budgets, and their priorities.

And yet, I never felt deprived.

Those clothes carried the marks of everyday life, sun-faded colours, softened cotton, fabric that had learned the shape of my body. They were worn freely, without self-consciousness. Clothes were something I lived in, not something that defined me.

As I grew older, fashion slowly entered my awareness. Trends, comparisons, and the quiet desire to look a certain way. Pocket money turned into purchases. Requests turned into negotiations.

Then came financial independence.

Suddenly, I could buy clothes whenever I wanted, because it was my money. With that freedom came polish. Grooming became intentional. Clothes became context-specific. Presentation slowly became part of identity.

I became well-dressed. Well-groomed. Appropriate, not just for work or events, but for almost every moment.

And somewhere along the way, something softened… and then quietly disappeared.

One day, I found myself looking for old clothes in my wardrobe, clothes that no longer existed. And I was surprised by that longing.

Curious, I asked myself (and my new tech best friend, ChatGPT): What is this? Why do I suddenly crave old clothes?

The response stayed with me.

What I was noticing wasn’t negative. It was tender. Self-aware. A natural part of growing up.

As a child:

• Clothing was about comfort, use, and continuity
  
• Identity wasn’t curated; it was lived
  
• There was no pressure to present myself
  

As an adult:

• Clothing became about choice, agency, and self-respect
  
• Grooming signalled maturity, competence, and belonging
  
• I learned how to manage how the world sees me
  

None of this is wrong. This is growth.

But the missing feeling matters.

It isn’t actually torn or discoloured clothes.

What I’m missing is:

• Unselfconsciousness: not constantly monitoring how I look
  
• Ease: existing without performance
  
• Permission to be unfinished
  
• A softer relationship with myself
  

Being polished often comes with an invisible rule:
I must always be presentable.

And this part made me smile gently; my inner child never lived by that rule.

This moment of awareness helped me see myself with more compassion.

It says that I’ve internalised dignity and self-worth. I care for myself and how I show up, and that is healthy.

It says that I value authenticity. Wanting old clothes is really a longing for realness over perfection.

It says that constant self-curation can be tiring. Always being “put together” can quietly exhaust the nervous system.

And most importantly, it says that I’m craving integration, not regression. I don’t want to go back to lack or dependence. I want to carry freedom into abundance.

This reflection reminded me that growth doesn’t mean abandoning past versions of myself. It means making space for all of them.

I can be:

• Well-groomed and occasionally messy
  
• Intentional and relaxed
  
• Responsible and unbothered
  

So maybe the question isn’t:
Why do I miss wearing old clothes?

Maybe it’s:
Where in my life do I no longer permit myself to be imperfect?

Now, I’m practicing something small and grounding.

Wearing old clothes without guilt. Letting comfort exist without justification. Allowing myself to be seen, by myself, without an audience.

Maybe mindful living isn’t about rejecting elegance or care.
Maybe it’s about balance.

About knowing that:

• I can show up well-dressed when I want
  
• And I can show up soft, unpolished, and real when I need
  

I hope this practice helps me meet myself at a deeper layer.

Because sometimes, the most mindful thing we can do is loosen the need to be presentable… and simply be.

You’ll wear some part of me,
Like an old college T-shirt.
A little worse for wear, too frayed.
Stained with memories,
Of one too many chais
And glasses of bad alcohol.
And the smell of my perfume,
That can’t be washed away.

– From a poem by Antara Jha