For 23 years, my mother, a single parent, lavished me with an unwavering, almost suffocating love. Her devotion enveloped me like one of her vintage Hermès scarves: beautiful, but sometimes constricting. She always presented a polished image—coiffed hair, manicured nails—a façade that masked the realities of our tiny New York apartment. Designer clothes draped every surface, magazines blocked any sunlight, and our home whispered a story of mounting debt, compulsive spending, and a growing mental health crisis that would ultimately claim her life.
Next year marks the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death by suicide, an immeasurable void that continues to deepen with time. As I navigated my late 30s and early 40s, I found myself in a period of transformation. I embraced regular exercise, relinquished alcohol, and actively challenged the negative voices in my head. I sought mindfulness and reflection while balancing my roles as a partner, mother of four, and writer. Yet, amidst this inner clarity, my home remained a chaotic labyrinth—a direct consequence of my mother’s belongings.
After her passing, I stored her endless possessions in a Bronx storage unit, shipping them to London when I relocated in the late 2000s. The arrival of box after box at my new home with my then-fiancé (now husband) was unbearable. I watched his face crumple as our floors disappeared under a sea of cardboard, realizing my past threatened to engulf my present and future. But how could I discard these fragments of my mother? They held immense emotional and sartorial value, precious relics of a life gone too soon.
Some children inherit real estate; I inherited a world-class dressing-up box: a marabou feather boa by Sonia Rykiel, a sculptural Claude Montana jacket, a silver Prada clutch from the dawn of the new millennium… Wearing my mother’s clothes brought her back to me; each accessory possessed talismanic properties. Or at least they did. Over the last few years, I began to feel like my possessions owned me, not the other way around. I clung to my mother’s things while also compulsively buying more, then refusing to let go. Having lost my mother and never truly bonding with my father—a source of further trauma and anxiety—I lived in constant fear of abandonment. This fear translated into a possessive attachment to objects. How could I toss them away so carelessly, mirroring the abandonment I dreaded? A quick Google search confirmed my anxieties: genetics, ADHD, loss, and deprivation are all linked to hoarding.
Slowly, I began to reclaim my home, signing up for Vinted and Vestiaire. I realized I could curate a select few of my mother’s clothes, letting go of the rest, including damaged, stained, or irreparably broken items. Holding onto the vintage Ferragamo flats my father once gifted me wasn’t going to mend our fractured relationship (nor the excruciating blisters they caused).
As I accepted these truths, a neon “EVERYTHING MUST GO” sign flashed in my mind. One by one, I shipped boxes of clothes I’d brought over from London more than 15 years ago, feeling lighter with each package sent. The process, devoid of the sadness, guilt, and anger I anticipated, instead brought a sense of relief and, surprisingly, joy.
My mother always insisted on keeping everything “just in case,” but that advice no longer resonated. I couldn’t burden my children with my childhood baggage. They would still experience my mother’s vibrant personality through the items I chose to keep: a royal-blue Viktor & Rolf dress with a dramatic pointed collar, rhinestone grommets, and leather tassel details, embodying her “more is more” approach to fashion; the Louis Vuitton X Stephen Sprouse oversized wallet she used daily (she adored designer collaborations); the Hermès Collier de Chien belt I now wear with dresses and denim; the nylon Prada keyring-wallet my teenage daughter now uses. And, since practical considerations aren’t always paramount, I held onto the Sonia Rykiel boa.
I want to pass on everything my mother taught me: her style, glamour, and magnetism. But I also want to instill in my children the knowledge that they are enough, just as they are, with or without mountains of stuff. And so am I.
