Sharing clothes is how we carry loved ones with us

Clothes carry a special significance for me. As I’ve grown and experimented with my identity in fashion, I found myself being pulled time and time again to my mom’s closet.

What was a forbidden zone of dress up and imagination as a kid, became a source of inspiration and my own personal shopping centre. I began slipping in while getting ready for parties in high school, searching for just the right pieces to impress my shiny new Toronto art school friends. 

Bedazzled boot-cut jeans? Stolen. Worn-out brown leather riding boots with metallic details? Poached. Every little scrap that caught my eye promptly flew from her closet and into the streets of Toronto. Eventually, my mom caught on to my weekly heists. But by then, it was far too late. The words “Thanks, it’s my mom’s,” were too ingrained in my vocabulary to ever go back. 

I discovered my dad’s closet too. His belts, sweaters and jackets carried me through the years, their large pockets meant never needing a purse or lamenting the pitiful size of women’s pockets. After conquering my parents’ collections, I started breaking into the world of friends’ clothing. 

By my second year of high school, my friend group became a monstrous Wall Street-style bidding ring. The best-fitting dresses and coolest shirts were swapped and studied, finding many different homes over the years. Luckily, I happened to live just five houses down from one of the best closets in my school — both my friend’s and her mother’s clothes crept their way into my outfits. Always with reassurance that they’d find their way back — which they mostly did. 

This Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants-like system followed me to Halifax. My pile of borrowed clothing — nabbed from friends new and old — grows with every passing night-out, as cute shirts, cowboy boots and heels magically make their way out the door. 

A recent incident involved returning home to a dramatic crime scene. 

The shoes my friend wore upon arrival and a mysterious hat — which I later found out belonged to her grandpa — had somehow appeared, strewn across my bed. She was nowhere to be found, and my mom’s black cowboy boots — which were sitting by my door when I left that morning — had disappeared.

You can imagine my surprise when I sauntered into my friend’s room only to be met by her fabulous outfit, made fabulous by my stolen boots. 

Fashion has become a source of connection, especially going into my first year of university. Our first impressions of people, before they even open their mouths, are often their appearance. 

Awesome jeans? I’ll notice and plan to steal them. What begins as a compliment ideally descends into those jeans in my closet, and a new friend showing off a shirt of mine in the dining hall. 

There’s a confidence that comes with sharing your favourites with others. Bonds are forged when you’re trusted with someone’s things, and cemented when they’re trusted with yours. 

While sharing with friends is fine and dandy, there’s a special love that comes from my mom’s clothes. Moving to Halifax, her clothes became more than just a way to express myself. They’re how I carry her with me. 

A sweater pulled on two minutes before lecture is a reminder of family back home. It brings back memories of when my mom urged fourteen-year-old me — fresh off of food poisoning — to trek for hours up a mountain on a family vacation. The sweater she was wearing was thrown around my shoulders to keep safe, just in case I needed to double over the cliff. 

Her words, “If you can do this, you can do anything,” became ingrained in its fabric. Now, when I walk away from an embarrassing tutorial — or too many hours in the library — they follow me. They’re a reminder that she always has my back, just like I always have her clothes.