The Seasonal Revisit
Organization as Ritual, Not Just Structure
One thing that has always resonated with me is good design—when form meets function in satisfying ways. And one of the most accessible places to practice that is the closet. Most of us have one. And most of us have more clothes than we need.
Before I explore deeper questions, I want to share a little about how I got here—how I approach clothing and closet design as a reflection of creativity, function, and evolving needs.
To be clear: this didn’t happen overnight. A lot of self-help books and lifestyle blogs might tell you to invite friends over, put on some music, and make an afternoon of it. That never worked for me. What did work was consistency—small, repeated actions—and letting the process evolve over time.
Because we evolve. We change shape, priorities, jobs, geographies, phases of life. And our needs, desires, and rhythms shift too. So why wouldn’t our closets?
In my early career, with my own disposable income for the first time, I bought what felt fun or stylish—often chasing the feeling of being invincible. That feeling isn’t wrong, but the choices I made then don’t always hold up today. I also accepted hand-me-downs willy-nilly, hoping something might work. But what I ended up with was a closet full of clothes that sparked joy for no one. This is the truth behind “free” not being truly free—it cost me space, both physical and emotional.
What changed was my approach: season after season, I began to edit. Slowly. I asked:
Does this still work for me?
What role does it play in my life today?
Am I holding onto it for a version of me that no longer exists or hoping for a future version of myself not currently here?
Over time, I distilled my closet down to pieces that truly spark joy (yes, Marie Kondo gets referenced everywhere—but she had a point). Now, I have clothing for two of the same seasons (or one season where nothing gets repeated), with a rhythm of turning over every three months. It gives me something to look forward to. I don’t get bored of my wardrobe. And since I rotate pieces annually, sometimes a beloved summer dress of 2025 won’t resurface until 2027—making it feel brand new again.
Some might say this means I own too many clothes. Perhaps. But what I’ve learned is that “too many” is entirely subjective. This system works for me. It helps me maintain excitement and intentionality.
One of my favorite rituals is what my sister and I have long called an “exchange transaction.” We’ve done it since we were children. Every so often, I’ll browse her closet and find something familiar, beautiful, and ask, “Can I borrow this?”—only to realize it was once mine. Somehow, it’s new again. This playful back-and-forth has helped me realize I’ve always had a point of view, even when I didn’t have language for it.
That’s been the through-line: style evolves, but the core of it—the silhouettes, colors, and fabrics we’re drawn to—often stays. For me, that’s classic tailoring and sober, timeless materials. One thing that’s helped is that I’ve had a number of pieces made for me over the years—for specific events, trips, and moments—and those garments have endured beautifully. Some I’ve pulled out years later, during a move or seasonal change, and they still feel right. It’s an unexpected delight to rediscover them.
All of this leads to one central idea:
Closet organization isn’t a one-time fix. It’s an ongoing dialogue between your life and your clothing.
Each season, I ask myself:
What’s working?
What’s sitting unused?
What do I need more of—not in trend, but in function?
Is this item supporting how I move through the world right now?
These questions have put an end to impulse purchases. Sure, I’ve had a few. But I now notice that while they may serve a purpose, they don’t spark joy. They’re useful, but not exciting. I’d rather wait, look forward to what I’ll unpack next season, and let my style unfold slowly.
In America, comfort is often prized above all. But sometimes, I think we’ve mistaken comfort for giving up. True comfort, to me, isn’t sloppiness—it’s ease in our own skin and our own clothes. It’s why I still get inspired by well-dressed people. They’re rare. When I see someone with personal style, it feels like a gift.
So here’s the challenge I’ve set for myself this summer: no black. It’s a color I default to for ease, invisibility, neutrality. But I want to see what happens when I challenge myself to be intentional in dressing—and dressing with creativity and joy.
A Seasonal Closet Revisit
Questions for Reflection
If this essay resonated with you, here’s an easy challenge for the season ahead—whether it’s summer or winter where you are. This isn’t about purging or starting over. It’s about tuning in. Start with the clothes you consider currently seasonal—nothing more. And ask:
What do I want from these clothes?
Do I actually reach for them?
If not, why not?
For the aspirational items—the ones I always “mean” to wear—what’s the throughline? A feeling? A cut? A fantasy?
Can I recreate that feeling with what I already have? (Really ask yourself. Of course you can.)
If I default to a particular style, why is that? What does it give me?
Where is there comfort? Where is there joy?
How do I want to feel in my clothes this season—not just physically, but emotionally?
What might it look like to dress for that feeling?
This isn’t about making big changes. It’s about noticing. And slowly, season by season, deciding how you want to show up—with intention, joy, and a touch of play.