My wardrobe looks little like an archaeological record of my work history. The corporate me - blazers, fitted trousers and skirts, good for formal meetings, but as most of my meetings are online and casual these days, they rarely get an outing. The post-corporate me - my “creative entrepreneur” outfits, lots of floaty linen, lots of beige.
And then the things that are just... me, now. Whoever that is.
The wardrobe is just the most visible bit. The same in-betweenness shows up in the way I write, in how I introduce myself at things, in what I say when someone asks me what I do. There’s a stage of being a woman in your forties, fifties or sixties that doesn’t have a satisfying name, but I’ve started calling it the awkward middle.
It’s the bit nobody really talks about, because it doesn’t have the arc of a transformation story. You’ve started moving. You haven’t arrived yet. You’re not the person you were. You’re not yet the person you’re becoming. You’re both, at the same time
