Moving from the city into the woods felt, at first, like a silencing. As if my expression had to shrink to fit the landscape. As if I had to become someone else to belong here.
There is truth in that, but no more than the quiet truth that we also change ourselves to belong to a city.
I wore the same dress two different ways. Once, a Catherine O'Hara kind of city version of myself, styled for a wedding up north. The other, I softened into something more rooted, a woodsy witch stitched together from quieter places. Both whimsical. Both me. Both entirely different.
In that contrast, I realized I had found myself again, and this time, I was content to lean into the latter.
Here I was, wrapped in the embroidery of my mom’s old scarf, dyed with natural colors and made with care, crafted to last. I was raised to be thrifty, and that is a gift I will always carry with me.
I found myself in the details. In thoughtful pairings. In thrifted pieces that once belonged to upper class retirees, to working union families, to artisans who cared for their denim and garments as if they were meant to last a lifetime, because good heirloom clothing can last multiple lifetimes when it is cared for properly.
Clothes made to be kept, not consumed. Recycled and reused. Loved and cherished. Held onto.
Things that ask for care, and in return, offer it.
Somewhere along the way, society stopped wanting to read the instructions. And everything else unraveled from there.
Here I write this in fuzzy wool socks my friend knit me, my favorite worn vintage jeans, that fit me like a glove, and my moms old blouse, falling back in love with my sustainable expression, and with myself, only after feeling it stripped away and returned through a different lens, in a different land.
Sometimes that is what it takes. A little adjustment. A little time. A quiet unraveling before something new can take shape.
Now I feel as I should in my clothing again. They do not wear me, and I do not wear them. We wear each other, thoughtfully, intentionally. And whether anyone else understands it no longer matters again, because when something is true, it resonates anyway.
You cannot force freedom. Freedom is something you grow into.
With short spurts, I wax and I wane, and still, I find myself once more.
Have you ever felt like this after moving? Feel free to explain further in the comments. What kind of town/city, how it was different and why.
Yes, and now its settled
No
Yes but I still feel awkward
Only felt more free after moving
