Learning to dress like myself

There are certain sewing patterns I'm always drawn to. Swishy dresses, elegant tailored outfits, clothes that hark back to the late 1990s and early 2000s, when I was a young woman building a career and finding my feet in the world.

I can spend ages admiring these patterns, imagining the fabrics I'd use and the finished garments I'd make. And yet, when I stop to think about it, I have very little use for them.

I work from home. I run a household. I spend my days doing ordinary things that don't require a swishy dress or a beautifully tailored jacket. And honestly, the thought of getting dressed up, doing my hair and putting on a full face of makeup is more likely to induce stress than excitement.

So why am I still attracted to these clothes? And why has it taken me until the ripe old age of 50 to feel entirely comfortable admitting that they're probably not for me?

Sometimes I fall in love with the idea of making a garment long before I stop to consider whether I'd actually wear it. I've had these patterns for years, but have never made them up since I realised I probably wouldn't wear them.

When everyone else seems to know something you don't

I've always been a casual person. I remember getting ready to go out with friends as a young woman and watching them spend what seemed like an extraordinary amount of time on their hair and makeup. I'd wash and dry my hair, put on a little natural-looking makeup and consider myself ready.

They couldn't understand why I didn't make more effort. I couldn't understand why they wanted to change their appearance so much.

Of course, in my young mind, I thought they were right and I was wrong. There was an unspoken assumption that making an effort meant getting dressed up, doing your hair and makeup and looking noticeably different from how you looked every day. If I didn't particularly enjoy that process, perhaps I wasn't trying hard enough.

It took me a long time to understand that none of us was wrong.

My friends enjoyed the fun of getting dressed up and expressing a particular side of their personalities. I didn't. What felt like an enjoyable transformation for them felt inauthentic to me, as though I was trying to be someone I wasn't.

We simply had different preferences. But when you're young, it's easy to mistake being different for getting something wrong.

The clothes I love looking at but don't want to wear

Here's the thing. I still love looking at fancy clothes. In the sewing community, they're sometimes called frosting, and I can absolutely appreciate the appeal.

I love the look of a beautifully tailored outfit. I love a swishy dress in a gorgeous fabric. I can imagine the pleasure of making these garments, and I can appreciate the skill and thought that go into creating them.

But there's a difference between what makes me happy to look at and what makes me happy to wear.

The tailored outfits are particularly interesting because they remind me of a time in my life when I was flourishing as an individual. I had a career that involved travel, dining out and holidays with friends. They were good times, and I associate those clothes with that version of myself.

This was me in the late 90s after I just got home from the office. Tailored, short-sleeved jacket and full-length skirt. I'm sure I would have been rocking some court shoes with this outfit. I felt so confident in this outfit at the time, and I'm happy to treasure this memory without trying to recreate it.

For a while, I think I entertained the idea that if I started dressing like that again, I might somehow recapture those years. Logically, I knew that wasn't true, but the association was still there.

Of course, I can't recreate that period of my life simply by putting on a tailored jacket. And the truth is, I don't want to.

I've never felt more settled and secure in myself than I do now. I love my life and wouldn't swap it for anything. I can cherish those memories without needing to recreate them.

Perhaps I can also appreciate those clothes for what they are, without expecting them to become part of the life I live today.

Sewing has taught me to ask a different question

When you sew your own clothes, there's a lot more at stake than the price of a garment you might never wear.

You invest yourself in the process. There's the dreaming and planning, finding or drafting the right pattern, choosing the fabric composition, colour and print, and imagining how the finished garment will look and feel.

For those of us who love this kind of creative process, that's a huge part of the pleasure. Making clothes isn't simply a means to an end. The process itself is rewarding.

But I still want something at the other end of all that effort. I want a garment I'll actually wear.

I've come to realise that one of the most useful questions I can ask myself before starting a project is this: Do I just like looking at this, or would I actually wear it?

It's a deceptively simple question, but it has helped me think much more carefully about where I invest my time and creative energy.

I can admire a pattern without making it. I can love a fabric without needing to turn it into a dress. I can appreciate a beautiful outfit without deciding that I ought to want one for myself.

And I can still enjoy making something a little more extravagant when the mood takes me, knowing that it doesn't have to become a staple of my wardrobe to have been a worthwhile project.

There's so much pleasure in imagining, planning and making a garment. I just want to make sure there's pleasure in wearing it, too.

The distinction isn't about being sensible all the time or denying myself the pleasure of making something beautiful. It's about understanding what kind of pleasure I'm looking for, and being honest with myself about what I want from the finished garment.

Acceptance is one thing. Embracing it is another.

At 50, I've finally recognised and accepted that my preferences are fairly straightforward. I like simple lines, unfussy designs and breathable fabrics. I want clothes that let me move freely, feel comfortable throughout the day and accommodate my wildly fluctuating waistline without making me miserable.

None of this is particularly revolutionary. Plenty of people have known what they like for years.

But there's a difference between knowing and acknowledging your preferences and actually embracing them.

For a long time, I knew I preferred casual clothes. I knew I didn't enjoy spending ages getting ready. I knew that comfort mattered enormously to me.

Yet some part of me still treated those preferences as shortcomings. Perhaps I should make more effort. Perhaps I should be more interested in fashion. Perhaps I should want to dress up more often.

Embracing my preferences means something different. It means owning them as part of who I am, rather than treating them as habits I might eventually outgrow or faults I ought to correct.

I don't have to persuade myself that my preferences are acceptable. I don't have to find a good enough reason for them. They're simply mine, and that's okay.

I wish I'd understood that when I was younger.

I remember squeezing myself into tight jeans and ending the day in agony around my stomach. I knew they weren't comfortable, but I wanted to wear what everyone else was wearing, even when it meant putting myself through real physical discomfort.

Looking back, I find it a little sad that fitting in seemed more important than listening to my own body.

I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting to look good. I certainly don't think everyone should dress like me. But I do think we can become so accustomed to measuring ourselves against other people's expectations that we stop paying attention to what actually works for us.

Sometimes the most useful thing we can do is give ourselves permission to want something different.

Dressing for the life I actually have

My everyday life doesn't call for fancy clothes. In fact, dressing up would often make my day more difficult.

If I'm physically uncomfortable, I find it much harder to concentrate and work efficiently. I don't want to spend my day thinking about what I'm wearing, adjusting my clothes or wishing I could change into something more comfortable.

I also don't want to have to change out of my good clothes when it's time to walk the dogs, put out the rubbish or cook dinner. I know some people are perfectly happy to do that, but it's not my flow.

Most days, I want to get dressed and get on with things.

That doesn't mean I never dress up. A few times a year, I'll happily put on a swishy dress, apply a little foundation and even straighten my hair. I enjoy it when the occasion feels right.

The problem only arises when I start imagining that these occasional moments represent my everyday life, and fill my wardrobe accordingly.

A handful of special occasions doesn't justify building an entire wardrobe around a lifestyle I don't have. Nor does admiring an elegant outfit mean I need to recreate it in my own wardrobe.

The same principle applies to all sorts of clothes we might buy or make for an imagined future. Perhaps we picture ourselves going to more dinner parties, travelling more often or returning to an old career. Perhaps we're waiting for our bodies to change, or for life to become less busy.

There's nothing wrong with wanting those things. But in the meantime, we still have to get dressed every morning.

Our everyday lives deserve clothes that work for them.

Everyday clothes deserve to make us feel good, too

I want to be clear about something. I'm not suggesting that we should stop caring about how we look or resign ourselves to wearing whatever happens to be comfortable.

Quite the opposite.

I believe our lives are made up of ordinary days, and we shouldn't have to wait for a special occasion to feel good in what we're wearing.

But feeling good doesn't have to mean dressing formally. It doesn't have to mean wearing makeup, styling our hair or putting on something that makes us feel unlike ourselves.

There's a big difference between a stretched-out, faded T-shirt that we use for painting and a fresh, well-fitting T-shirt with a neckline we've chosen because we like how it looks on us. Both might be comfortable. Both might be practical. But one is something we've reached for because it's available, while the other is something we've chosen with a little more intention.

Most of my life isn't spent dressing up. I want clothes that let me get on with it. This outfit is a fairly recent make that's become a fast favourite. It's a Cashmerette Concord T and a self drafted, slight A-line skirt with a ruffle on the bottom.

We can make those choices throughout our wardrobes. We can choose fabrics that feel good against our skin, shapes that suit our bodies and colours that bring us pleasure. We can make everyday clothes that are both practical and beautiful.

We don't have to choose between comfort and looking good. And we certainly don't have to dress to a level of formality that doesn't suit us in order to feel that we've made an effort.

For me, this is where personal style becomes less about following rules and more about understanding ourselves.

What do I like? What makes me feel comfortable? What do I want to wear on an ordinary Tuesday? What will allow me to get on with my day without feeling as though my clothes are getting in the way?

These might not be the questions that lead me to the most exciting sewing projects on the internet. But they're the questions that help me make clothes I love living in.

You don't have to want what everyone else wants

I suspect I'm not the only woman who has spent years wondering whether her preferences were somehow inadequate.

Perhaps you've bought clothes that looked wonderful but never felt quite right when you wore them. Perhaps you've held onto a wardrobe from an earlier stage of your life, or kept buying clothes for a version of yourself you thought you ought to become.

Perhaps you've convinced yourself that you should make more effort, dress more elegantly or wear something different, simply because that's what other women seem to do.

I'm not suggesting you should stop experimenting or never step outside your comfort zone. Sometimes trying something new is exactly how we discover what we love.

But there's a difference between exploring a possibility and feeling that you have to pursue it to be good enough.

You can admire a style without adopting it. You can enjoy making a garment without needing it to become an everyday favourite. You can cherish the person you used to be without trying to dress like her again.

And you can choose simple, comfortable, casual clothes without that choice saying anything negative about your personality, ambition or sense of style.

I'm still attracted to those swishy dresses and beautifully tailored outfits. I probably always will be. I can enjoy looking at them, dreaming about them and occasionally making one, without expecting them to become the clothes I reach for every day.

The difference is that I no longer see my preference for casual clothing as something I need to overcome.

I know who I am. I know the life I live. And I'm finally comfortable letting those two things guide what I wear.

Perhaps that's what dressing for the life you actually have really means: not giving up on who you might become, but no longer treating who you are today as someone who needs fixing.