Wardrobe Noise
How to dress for the person you are (not the one you thought you’d be)
Two weeks ago, I pulled the summer clothes out of storage.
Early, I know. But we were embarking on that ultimate luxury: trading the wintry skies of Europe for tropical sunshine. “Loves summer” is basically 90% of my personality, and a large part of this is outfit related. Maybe it’s a hangover from growing up in Dublin where 20 degrees is considered a heatwave, but is there any joy greater than t-shirt weather or an uncovered foot?
So back to the yearly ritual of ordering, returning, trying things on, taking things out of storage, ironing pieces I haven’t worn in years. And somewhere between the seventh cotton shirt and a growing pile of “maybe” dresses, I realised I don’t need most of these summer clothes. I’m not sure I even like them. So why am I keeping them? And yet every year, I repeat the same cycle:
Buy. Store. Forget. Rediscover. Reject. They take up space in my suitcase, my storage spaces, my wardrobe, my brain.
I don’t just have too many summer clothes, or winter clothes for that matter.
I have wardrobe noise.
What is Wardrobe Noise?
Wardrobe noise is what happens when your wardrobe is out of alignment with your actual life.
It’s the accumulation of:
clothes for a version of you that no longer exists
clothes for a life you don’t actually live
clothes for a future you keep hoping to become
The result is the quiet friction of opening your wardrobe in the morning and already feeling tired, because suddenly you have to decide:
Who am I today?
What works together?
What fits?
What feels good?
All before you’d had your first sip of coffee! And if you get it wrong (which i often do) the day starts slightly off. Sometimes the mistakes can even compound into a miserable day (is there any misery greater than wearing a mini skirt to a picnic?)
What causes it?
For me, the misalignment is obvious once I look at it properly.
I live in Paris. We have (maybe) three real months of summer, the rest of the year my legs are covered. I work for myself, mostly out of a very relaxed co-working space where two colleagues wear sunglasses inside. I don’t need a pencil skirt. I have a toddler who will put Nutella on anything pale coloured within seconds. I am brat-ishly sensitive to discomfort; polyester gives me a rash and I rip any pair of jeans off the second I get home. Probably won’t be applying for a job with Vogue any time soon.
And yet my wardrobe is full of:
structured shirts that make me look like a box
far too many summer clothes I can only wear during those fleeting months
uncomfortable pieces for a more polished, more “together” version of me (aka the one who doesn’t have a toddler)
things I bought because on some sort of dopamine hunt, eg they were massively reduced or I felt they would make me cooler
Reader, they did not make me cooler.
I think a lot of us are doing this. We are flooded with images of other people we would kind of like to be, every time we open social media. We’re not buying for our lives, we’re buying for our fantasies. Even if that fantasy is being someone who can withstand denim. And then we’re surprised when getting dressed feels strangely stressful.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about noise. You could say there’s been a lot of noise noise.
Food noise.
Brain noise.
“All the tiny open loops that drain your energy without you realising” noise.
Wardrobe noise is the same. It’s actually the noise that hits earliest in the day. It’s not dramatic, probably couldn’t call it urgent, but it quietly taxes your darling nervous system (or whatever part of our body holds the decision making centre - guess it’s the brain?) every single morning.
So What’s the Solution?
What I’m starting to realise is this: true luxury is not having more.
Luxury is a small collection, but everything within it works impeccably, ideally together. It’s not a thirty square meter walk-in wardrobe, but an organised one in which every piece makes you feel great all day. You know exactly what’s in there, where everything is. Every outfit is easy. Every morning is lighter.
Not because you became more disciplined (although that does help with keeping it tidy) but because you focussed on curation.
So before trying to “be better” at shopping or suddenly become someone with impeccable taste, I’m doing something much simpler:
I’m building a system. I’ve started digitising my wardrobe. It’s a bloody slow burn, but seeing everything clearly means treating my clothes less like random objects and more like a desirable collection. It also makes packing 10000 times easier, because you can’t manage what you can’t see. And more importantly: you can’t feel good in what you don’t even remember you own.
The goal isn’t a perfect wardrobe; it’s a quiet one. One that doesn’t ask anything from me in the morning, one that gives me energy instead of taking it. And the interesting thing is, when I really look at what I actually wear, it’s not complicated at all.
It’s the same few pieces, on rotation. They’re the clothes that can endure:
Crawling on the floor with a toddler
coffee spills (I am incredibly clumsy)
A changeable day in Paris
Being stuffed into a suitcase
What I Actually Wear (Most of the time)
(1.) This wooly jumper thrown over everything when it’s cold or (3.) this cotton one when it’s warm. (2.) These sandals that won’t blister while chasing the runaway toddler on his scooter for kilometers. (4.) This soft cotton t-shirt that somehow works under or without a jumper. (5.) This pair of jeans that flatters, washes dreamily and with enough give in the waistband to excuse that midday Croque Monsieur.
Nothing cool. No groundbreaking “fashion” (sorry Miranda Priestly), but genuinely aligned with my (actual) life and so bloody comfy.
Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of silly dresses which absolutely have their moments in my wardrobe. I’m not becoming a nun, nor am I gearing towards better style. I just want fewer, better decisions. Which will inevitably lead to a smaller footprint and a less cluttered space. Which honestly sounds pretty peaceful; a life where the things I reach for - whether it’s clothes, work, food or anything else - actually belong to the person I am now.
I think this is true far beyond clothes; most of what exhausts us isn’t big, dramatic problems (although they do take their toll). It’s small, constant friction of too many options, too many decisions, too much that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
How I’m De-Cluttering
So this spring, I’m not just sorting out the tights drawer, I’m:
1. Buying fewer things.
2. Selling, chucking or donating the things that no longer work (no matter how badly I want them to).
3. Removing tolling decisions from my morning.
4. And hopefully, letting these systems compound. Not just what’s in my wardrobe, but also what’s in my fridge, the furnishings in my home, the way I spend my hours. Stripping back what no longer fits and rebuilding something that actually feels good to live inside. Creating systems that make everything softer.
Maybe it’s a late thirties thing. The grieving of the girl who wore those clothes. That in-between place, the shedding of the life you imagined, replacing it with the one you realise you’ve chosen. It’s kind of incredible when you reali
se it’s OK to donate that bandana top. No need to iron all four square centimetres of it. It served you well, now it’s time to let it go.
Claire