Starting Over

A Note From Lakyn: When I started writing this post in December, I didn’t intend for it to end up being quite so topical. For those who somehow don’t know, Los Angeles, my home, is currently dealing with the aftermath of several incredibly destructive fires, due to both historically dry (it hasn’t rained in eight months) and historically windy (gusts up to 100mph) conditions like we’ve never seen before. Thousands of homes and livelihoods—including apartments, trailer homes, multi-generational homes, historic structures, libraries, family-owned businesses, churches and schools— have been lost, and entire communities of people are in the process of rebuilding their lives.

While I have, by the grace of God, not been directly affected by the flames themselves—power outages and dangerous air quality, aside—, hundreds of thousands of lives have been changed. As I am doing my best to help in any way I can, I teetered back and forth on whether this was a “tone deaf” article to post: after all, it’s just a silly little post about clothes. But, I realize that, while things are, indeed, “just things,” losing said things is still incredibly painful, and incredibly difficult to come back from. I am someone who has lost my childhood home. I know what it’s like to have no pictures from your childhood, to own nothing you didn’t buy on your own, to have no true roots that you didn’t plant yourself. But I have rebuilt. And I hope that I can help anyone else who needs to do so. Even if it is “just” clothes.

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What would you do if you lost your entire wardrobe?

Well, not your entire wardrobe. You have two carry-on sized suitcases with assorted items—some dresses, a jacket or two, some woefully impractical shoes, an unloved pair of pants—but the rest of your wardrobe, including items that had followed you from your childhood home, from your first years of adulthood, from your first real relationships and grown-up nights out are gone without a trace.

I’ll tell you what I did.

Let’s set the scene: I’m 22, on my third major relocation of adulthood following a move to Chicago roughly 3 years prior and a move to Houston the year before that. This time, it’s LA, baby. I didn’t officially move to do anything, just to escape the previous winter’s “polar vortex” that I’d barely survived, even with my extensive and covetable coat wardrobe.

Through Craigslist, I secured a furnished room in the middle of Hollywood (I could see the Hollywood sign, unobscured, as I walked to my local Rite Aid and, yes, it did make me cry) and replied to some costume design and styling job listings. Through Tinder, I updated my location and set up some free dinners, I mean, dates. And I even managed to convince my friend who had recently moved back to pick me up from the airport, since I, to this day, do not drive. It was all coming together in a way my move to Chicago—during which I spent the first several months couchsurfing—did not, and I was feeling optimistic. All that was left was downsizing and transporting my belongings, including, of course, my clothes.

Some clothing swaps, Goodwill donation center runs (I didn’t know what I know now) and a couple dozen Poshmark sales later, I had all the pieces I truly valued but knew I wouldn’t need in May in Los Angeles (coats, jackets, etc.) packed into two 45 pound boxes, and enough outfits to tide me over for a couple of weeks packed into the aforementioned suitcases. I had first, last and next month’s rent (rent was only $800) in the bank with a few hundred bucks to spare, a really cool faux snakeskin jacket I bought using my employee discount from my brief seasonal job at Akira (I said I didn’t know what I know now!) and a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. I was 22 and ready to start my life. For real, this time.

It was such a cool jacket.

None of my friends had cars, so, I loaded my boxes into a taxi (UberX wasn’t really that popular, yet), and took them to my local FedEx to ship them off, making sure to check and double (and triple) check my new address. Each box, at roughly 50 pounds each, cost $81 to ship. There went a precious $162 of my few hundred dollars worth of safety net. I skipped the extra $50 for insurance, because I still needed to buy food for my last few days in Chicago. This would prove to be the worst decision I’ve ever made. Even worse than the time I decided to take a scooter home from a night out down a street I’d never really scooted down before and ended up with a sprained foot, sprained knee, swollen joints and a minor neck injury.

But, I didn’t know that, yet.

I arrived in Los Angeles on July 1, 2015, a Wednesday. My clothes were set to arrive the following Monday. I didn’t have a job yet, so I was prepared to wait in the living room right by the front door all day until they arrived. The day of, I parked on the couch to browse costume department gigs on my laptop and made sure I turned the ringer all the way up on my phone so I wouldn’t miss the text from FedEx. Finally, around 2pm, my phone went off: Package delivered. But…I didn’t hear anything…and the couch was right up against the outside wall—I should’ve. Still, I excitedly flung open the front door to find…nothing.

The apartment I lived in was one of 8 bungalow-style units in four buildings—one upstairs and one downstairs—connected by a large gated courtyard. I ran to the front gate to see if they’d inexplicably left it outside on the (semi-major) street. Nothing. I ran to the unit above me to see if they’d mistaken their door number for mine. Nope. I checked the bushes—maybe they were kind enough to hide it. Nada. This was well before it was normal to receive a photo showing the location your package; I have no idea where they delivered my boxes, but it wasn’t to me.

How to Build (From Nothing)

Yes, I did have a good cry, followed by losing a good two hours of my life on the phone with FedEx who told me to “wait a few days to see if they showed up.” Spoiler: they didn’t, which left me with a dilemma. I had to rebuild…but I was in a vulnerable state, and emotional shopping—even if it’s ultimately out of necessity—is rarely productive. Luckily—depending on how you look at it, I guess—I was not in a financial position to shop emotionally: I had to be strategic, which requires a clear mind.

Once my tears dried, I unpacked my suitcases and organized everything into my new closet. I arranged everything on a spectrum: day to night, with the pieces that could go either way in the middle. Then, I did one of the most productive things you can do for your wardrobe: I put on my party playlist and started playing dress up.

I always recommend taking the time to play with your clothes and come up with new outfits/combinations on a regular basis, specifically to better understand your wardrobe so you feel the urge to buy less stuff. That said, when you’re in a situation where you truly do need a lot in order to rebuild, playing dress up is even more imperative to make sure you’re buying the right stuff.

So, as I tried on my clothes and made my outfits, I asked questions: what would make this coffee date outfit appropriate for a dinner date? What will I need to wear to my first on-set gig? What else can I wear with this super cool jacket? I made a list on my phone, organized by the places I would most likely find the items I needed. I was—it cannot be overstated—broke, but I wanted to prioritize the best quality I could which to me at the time meant stores like Free People, American Apparel (RIP), and the sales rack at Macy’s, alongside a little thrifting here and there.

All of this immediately went out the window when I got my first deposit from a remote gig I found on Upwork that, in hindsight, I’m pretty sure was training an earlier version of AI.

If you’re even sort of interested in clothes or fashion or bargains in LA, you know about Santee Alley. For those who don’t, Santee Alley is an outdoor mall in DTLA that sells a lot of stuff—from tamales in bulk to electronics to wholesale cosmetics—but, what they’re most known for is cheap clothes and accessories of questionable origin.

I discovered Santee Alley shortly after acquiring my second gig sewing bags for a local artist and going with her to source fabrics. Downtown LA has a glorious garment district full of little shops selling fabrics from $2 to $200 per yard, walls full of zippers, and aisles full of trim and buttons. You can get faux fur in every color, repair your sewing machine, buy a new sewing machine, even buy fabric and go down the street to have it made into a suit.

As an aspiring fashion designer, the possibilities excited me, and I loaded up on fabric and notions to bring some new ideas to life. But, as we approached Santee Alley, the urge to replenish my wardrobe right then and there, much faster than I could sew it, became overwhelming. I blacked out. When I came to, I realized I’d spent almost all the money I’d made in LA so far: I was broke, once more, but, I was positively wealthy with polyester.

I didn’t stop there, though. As I gained my footing in LA, I found even more places to shop. None as cheap as Santee Alley (I once shopped at a store that had a special on 3 pairs of denim shorts for $15), but inexpensive enough that I easily fell into a cycle of buying new outfits for every event.

This wasn’t my first time dealing with a bit of a shopping addiction. One of my first jobs was in a coffee shop in an office building attached to the most famous mall in Houston—the Galleria. I’d frequently spend my lunch break and the $50+ I would make in tips every morning at stores my mom had never let me shop at: Wet Seal, Charlotte Russe, and Forever 21. My 300 square-foot studio was nothing more than a bed, a sewing machine, and piles of clothing. And now, my tiny bedroom was suffering the same fate.

How to Change

I officially had the exact opposite problem from before: I had too much stuff—too much crap, really. I had acquired so much without any real thought or purpose that I ended up with hardly any complete outfits, little versatility, and virtually no quality pieces to speak of. Spiritually, I was even worse off than when I had barely anything, because all I really had was the idea of good stuff with absolutely terrible execution. It didn’t take long before I realized just how unhappy I was with it all.

Around the same time, I read a book that changed my life: Stitched Up: The Anti-Capitalist Book of Fashion by Tansy E. Hoskins.

Everything about my ethos as both a consumer and a stylist came directly from this book and, though it was published way (way) back in 2014, it’s still devastatingly relevant today, and one that I recommend for anyone who considers themselves either a fashion lover or a progressive (or both, obviously).

That said, as much as I love and value every word and every morsel of knowledge in this book, it didn’t hit for me immediately. Not because I thought it was wrong or inaccurate in some way, but because it’s always going to be hard to not feel helpless after realizing just how long and how deeply you’ve been a part of the problem, even if not by choice. And that helplessness can sometimes turn into indignation—that’s what we see when we talk about Shein on social media—but, even if you’re actually receptive to the message it comes with and actively seeking to change your behaviors, sometimes your first instinct is actually the worst: in this case, that’s the urge to get rid of all your disgusting, low quality, unethically made fast fashion and start over fresh.

But, how does trashing perfectly good (or, at least, wearable) clothing—or donating it, where most of it will be dumped on the Global South—and entering yourself back into a directionless period of constant buying really do to change the world? What matters is how you channel those feelings of helplessness. Once you’ve educated yourself and confronted those tough realizations, the next step is to ask: What can I actually do to make a difference? What small, intentional steps can you take toward more ethical consumption (and a better wardrobe) without getting overwhelmed or falling into the trap of performative gestures?

How to Build (From Too Much)

My very first step—and yours, as well—was to put a moratorium on shopping. As dissatisfied as I was with my wardrobe I know, and you know, that we can’t just buy our way into better ethics or style.

To be clear, there is no ethical consumption over capitalism. We know this. But the proper response to that is not to throw up our hands and say “whatever,” it’s to consume less, and, when you do have to buy something, to do so as strategically as possible. A No Buy is not just a period to refrain from shopping, it’s an opportunity to reframe our mindset around purchasing, to understand our possessions and what lead us to acquire them and analyze why we’re ultimately so unsatisfied.

If you follow me on Threads or Instagram, you’ve seen my series on How To Build A Better Wardrobe Without Buying Anything. I came up with these 10 (yes, ten) steps to, of course, help you during No Buy periods, but also to encourage frequent, productive exploration of your style and maximization of your wardrobe. If you don’t follow me elsewhere, it’s okay, I’ll put them here, too:

1. Look Back: Remember that sweater you didn’t wanna take off all year? Remember that outfit that got you dozens of compliments? Remember that dress that made you go “WOW” the first time you put it on? What made them so special? Look back at your favorite outfits and garments you’ve worn and take note of what you love about them, what they have in common, and how you can make more of what you own feel like that!

2. Keep Track: How do your clothes make you feel? During your No Buy, keep track of your experiences and feelings while getting dressed in a journal or your preferred Notes app. What pieces do you reach for the most? Do you like them? What outfits made you happiest? Which ones made you feel the most blah? You’ll use this information to both evaluate what needs to go and figure out what you need to add when you’re ready to shop again!

3. Evaluate Everything: A lot of people think the first step to “starting over” with your wardrobe is to purge it, i.e. go through all your clothes and toss out what you don’t wear. But, I disagree. The first, and most effective, step requires taking the time understanding why you don’t wear your clothes. Evaluate everything--not just the stuff you don’t like anymore--by asking yourself: why did I buy this? Why doesn’t it work? What, if anything, should I replace it with?

4. Play Dress-Up: After you’ve evaluated your wardrobe, you may realize you have a lot of pieces you like but don’t wear...so wear them! One of the most effective (and fun) ways to really get to know your wardrobe—the good and the bad—is to put on your favorite playlist and play dress-up! Try new combinations; put on your usual go-tos and add something different; pick one piece and style it as many ways as you can. You never know what you’ll fall in love with!

5. Cull The Excess: It’s time to Purge. Armed with the knowledge of what you don’t wear and why--plus hopefully, some new ways to wear it--it’s time to get rid of the items that truly have no place in your wardrobe. But don’t just toss or donate them: make a conscious effort to ensure they’re rehomed: sell them, swap them, give them away, find organizations in need, etc. It’s tedious, right? I bet you never wanna have to do it again, huh? That’s why we’re doing this.

6. Change Your Set-Up: It always helps to look at things differently. If you find yourself constantly forgetting the cool clothes you own and reaching for the same things because they’re what you see first, simply change what you see first! Take the good stuff out of your drawers and hang it; rotate the stuff at the back of your closet to the front; and put things like accessories at hands-reach near your mirror or even your front door. You’d be surprised how inspired you can get by just seeing more of what’s there!

7. Fix It Up: Missing buttons, weird stains, tiny holes from accidentally poking your acrylic nail through your sleeves/leggings/sweaters: these are all incredibly fixable issues that we somehow always forget about...until we wanna wear something! Set yourself (and your closet) up for success by taking a day (or two) to make all those necessary repairs so that the next time you reach for that old favorite, you can actually wear it.

8. Set Your Intentions: Now that you’ve evaluated all your clothes, found new ways to style what you own, culled all the unwearable pieces from your wardrobe, organized your closet, and fixed what can be fixed: What’s really missing from your wardrobe? What are the pain points that immediately need to be addressed? What do you need from your wardrobe? What do you want your outfits to tell the world? Take the time to understand your new mindset moving forward before you, you know, move forward.

9. Seek Inspiration: Pinterest gets a bad rap, but, when used correctly, it’s a powerful tool for figuring out your own style and maximizing your existing wardrobe. Unfortunately, most people are using it wrong. You want to search for the specific items you already own for inspiration on how to style them, e.g. “oversized button up” or “leather mini skirt,” rather than searching for specific “-cores” or aesthetics. Start with the pieces you have the most variations of or love the most and get inspired!

10. Make a Plan: It’s time to focus. You know your wardrobe inside and out, now, which means you know what it needs. So, let’s make a plan: what needs to be replaced? What needs to be upgraded? What can be thrifted/bought secondhand? What can you find at independent/ethical brands? What’s the highest priority? What’s your budget? Get as specific as you can, write it down, and stick to it!

While I did put these steps in order, it’s okay if your journey to rebuild isn’t perfectly linear. Regardless of the path you choose, though, it’s important to align yourself with a purpose. A real purpose, not just vague goals of looking “more stylish” or “more put-together,” but a true understanding of what you want your wardrobe to be, what you want your clothes to mean, who you want to project out to the world. No problem will ever be solved with consumption, but intention goes a long way toward crafting a future you’re proud to be a part of. It’s not just clothes: it’s your identity.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all the times I’ve had to start over, rebuilding is an act of resilience—and even the smallest shifts in perspective can lead to profound change. Start where you are, use what you have, and build a life (and wardrobe) that truly reflects who you want to be.