When we were little girls, my sister and I got matching dresses. Blue, green, and purple, the small plaid squares flowed down from the teal frilly collar and ended just above our knees. There was a crinoline skirt to poof out the patterned top-layer, and we wore the dress with little white socks with a lace ribbon around the top and black Mary Jane shoes.

For a year, we wore these dresses to every baptism, wedding, and church service. To us, not only did these dresses make us feel like princesses, but we discovered that when we twirled, the dresses shot out away from our bodies and floated around us in a dizzying kaleidoscope of plaid. We began calling them our “up dresses.”

This is the first piece of clothing I remember loving.

*

I don’t remember the first piece of clothing my mom bought me that was too small. Maybe there was a comment about how losing five pounds would have it fit perfectly. Maybe the purchase of something beautiful was framed as a reward for dropping a size. Maybe it was several sizes too small and meant to be worn six months from the purchase date to a specific event like a Greek dance or family gathering. Draped on hangers and hung right at the front of my closet, these too-small clothes became shining beacons of possibility and acceptance.

I never questioned my mom when we began our aspirational shopping tips. My body changed in my twenties, I was binge eating, and I hated how I looked, so it felt supportive and hopeful to have her cheering on my weight loss efforts.

One of our most frequented stores was the Jones New York Factory Outlet when they had their Blowout sales days with everything marked down 50% and then another 40%. My mom ran her own physiotherapy clinic, so the charcoal wool slacks, pastel cashmere cardigans, and neutral silk blouses matched her aesthetic of professional business owner meets physio grappling with people’s body parts.

I, on the other hand, had no idea what my aesthetic was. I knew I loved colour and funky jewelry. Now, I might say that I’m maximalist meets cottage casual, but since my twenties and the first half of my thirties consisted of bouncing one hundred pounds up and down the scale each year, my shopping options were inconsistent and confusing.

Sometimes, I could buy clothing in straight-sized stores, and sometimes I couldn’t. Fat people often buy clothes that fit, not clothes they love. So, on these Jones New York excursions, I deferred to my mom’s tastes and to her expectations of my body size. My closet began to fill up with too-tight navy and charcoal pin-striped pant suits and jewel-toned, A-line dresses that hit just below the knees, black and white button-up blouses that strained across my breasts, and several formal dresses designed to hug my hourglass shape when it was a more acceptable size.

I don’t remember when we stopped the Jones New York pilgrimage. Maybe there was mention of one of the big sale events and an invitation extended that I declined. Maybe I’d started talking to my mom about how I had a right to both exist and love my body as it was and therefore wasn’t going to be weighing myself any more or buying clothes that didn’t fit. Maybe as I firmly told my family that there would be no more comments or questions about my body, my eating choices, or exercise habits, my mom realized that that included Jones New York too.

*

I moved into my dream apartment close to the beach in Toronto in my mid-thirties after having moved ten times in the previous fifteen years. The two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment signaled a new sense of fredom, both from a marriage that hadn’t worked and from internalized Fatphobia. And yet, lurking in a corner of the bedroom that would become my office were eight, thirty-gallon Rubbermaid storage bins stuffed with clothing from sizes twelve to twenty. As I popped the lids and spilled out the clothes, I found myself sitting between piles of tailored pants, soft sweaters, figure-flattering fancy dresses, leather and wool jackets, and enough athleisure wear to start my own store.

Most items had been worn only a few times, and many still had price tags attached. These clothes represented a mother’s sadness and a daughter’s longing. And I knew it was time to release it all.

*

Sitting in the second bedroom snacking on charcuterie, I watched as a group of my girlfriends shopped my former aspirational clothes. Organized by size and style, I had artfully arranged the pieces on top of the eight storage bins. The room was filled with chatter and laughter as they tried on clothes, choosing what fit them, and putting back what didn’t. No money was exchanged because each item they put in their bag healed an old wound in my heart.

When they left, I gathered the remnants, packed them into a bin for donation to the Salvation Army the next day, hopeful that more people could also choose clothes that fit them exactly as they are.

NONFICTION

Tethered Literary