My sourdough starter is named Coco. After Chanel.
She lives in a glass jar on my counter. Sometimes I forget to feed her for three days and she gets this sad, watery layer on top. I pour it off, add more flour, and tell her we all have rough weeks.
Yesterday I wore a cream-colored sweater with a hole in the left sleeve. My favorite pair of gray jeans — the ones that finally fit right after I washed them twice and gave up on the dryer. My hair in a loose bun that kept falling out.
I looked in the mirror and thought, this is fine.
Not beautiful. Not stunning. Just fine. And somehow that felt better than any perfect outfit I've ever tried to force.
Mochi doesn't care what I wear.
My cat is orange. Fat in the way that vets politely call "big-boned." He sits on whatever I'm trying to photograph. Knocks over my coffee. Sleeps directly on the black sweater I just laid out.
This morning he walked across my keyboard and deleted half an email I was writing to my sister.
I called him a little monster. Then I gave him a treat anyway.
Dressing yourself is kind of like having a cat. You can plan the perfect thing — the right colors, the right fit, the right vibe — and then your body does something unexpected. A button pulls. A hem rides up. Your favorite bra decides to stab you in the ribcage by 10 AM.
You can get mad. Or you can laugh and change into the backup shirt and move on.
Baking taught me to stop chasing perfect.
I used to think if a recipe didn't turn out exactly right, I failed.
Then I made a pear tart where the crust burned on the bottom and the fruit slid off when I tried to cut it. Ugliest thing I've ever served. But my neighbor ate two slices and said it tasted like fall.
Same with clothes.
I have a dress that gaps at the chest if I stand a certain way. A pair of trousers that are two inches too long no matter what shoes I wear. A linen shirt that wrinkles the second I sit down.
None of them are perfect. I wear them anyway.
Because the joy isn't in looking flawless. The joy is in the quiet act of choosing. This shirt, not that one. This color because it makes me feel soft. This fabric because I like the way it moves when I walk.
The best outfit I wore last week
No one saw it.
Saturday morning. Rain against the window. Mochi curled on the couch. I made a batch of cinnamon rolls — the kind where you have to roll the dough and let it rise twice. Took three hours.
I wore an oversized cardigan that belonged to my mom before she gave it to me. Faded blue. Buttons that don't quite match. A small stain on the cuff that I tried to get out and couldn't.
I wore it the whole time I baked. Flour on the sleeve. Butter under my nails. The house smelling like sugar and yeast.
That was the serene part. Not being dressed up. Not being put together. Just being in something that felt like a hug while I did something that made me happy.
So here's what I think
Dressing yourself doesn't have to be a performance.
Some days it's a statement. A bright color. A sharp blazer. A dress that makes you stand taller.
But most days? It's just getting dressed. Soft pants. An old sweater. Something that doesn't fight you.
You don't need to impress anyone in your own kitchen. You don't need to look perfect for your cat.
You just need to feel like yourself. Quiet. Comfortable. Maybe a little bit covered in flour.
That's enough. That's always been enough.