Anxiety played a part, too. Like so many women I know, I am a hyper overthinker. With no social interaction outside of my family, I spent most nights in that first lockdown lying awake, thinking of all the ways I might have upset someone without knowing or was possibly failing at my job. Looking back it’s no wonder I wanted to be buried under soft layers every morning, the weight of the fabric equal to the inner-anguish I was carting around. Yes, it was pretty gloomy.
Thankfully, it did not last. At some point, I began to resurface. I am not exactly sure when. But a combination of society unlocking that summer, going on holiday and going back to the office injected colour back into my wardrobe. I went back to the gym and started feeling strong again. I swapped my midis for minis. I picked out gingham blouses in bright shades and wore printed bermuda shorts to the park. I slowly started to remember what it was like to be seen, and enjoy it. Most importantly, I remembered the things that I liked about myself.
Reaching for a shouty fuchsia leopard print Rixo mini-dress to wear clubbing – one I hadn’t worn for two years and one that is made of silk so flimsy I feel naked in it – was the culmination of that journey back. It’s a journey that I’m carrying on into Autumn, taking to the turning leaves and that feeling of new beginnings that September brings with bright shades, vivid details and metallics. I, being obsessive about these things, have already ordered a coat in cotton-candy pink; am armed with a new pair of high waisted, wide-leg jeans in the softest baby blue denim for when the mercury drops.
Each item I pull out from my wardrobe will be chosen to radiate me. She is someone I am happy, once more, to show off.