It sounded adventurous.

Romantic, even.

Although our children had long since left home, our lives hadn’t slowed down. We still loved traveling, working, getting together with friends, and saying yes to new adventures. But somewhere along the way, we realized we were maintaining a house that no longer matched the season of life we were in. We didn’t want less life - we simply wanted less house.

Besides, I’ve always been a little impulsive when it comes to embracing life. One of my favorite mantras is YOLO. I liked it so much I tattooed it on my hand.

So we did it.

What I didn’t realize was that moving wouldn’t just require us to pack our belongings.

It would require us to confront them.

The timing couldn’t have been more complicated. I had just closed Clothes Minded, the boutique I’d poured thirteen years of my life into. The inventory that hadn’t sold moved into our guest bedroom while I continued trying to sell the last pieces online. Then our house sold quickly, our application for a Laguna Beach condo was accepted, and suddenly our dream became very real.

We had two months to dismantle an entire life.

Every day became another round of decisions.

Facebook Marketplace.

Consignment stores.

Trips to Goodwill.

A neighborhood Facebook group where strangers happily came to take things away.

I learned something surprising.

Getting rid of possessions can become a full-time job.

Thankfully, the new owners bought most of our furniture.

But my closet….

My closet was another story.

I’ve already written about discovering nine different versions of myself hanging there. Every jacket, every pair of boots, and every dress represented a woman I’d once been.

There was the incredible piece that stopped me in my tracks on a buying trip in New York.

The blouse from that tiny London boutique I may never shop again.

The concert tee.

The leather jacket.

The beautiful shoes that reminded me of who I was when I wore them.

I purged in layers.

The obvious decisions came first.

Then the harder ones.

Then the impossible ones.

Finally, the day before the movers arrived, I gave up.

I pulled giant black bags over everything that remained and decided those decisions could move with me.

Seeing those bags lined up was sobering.

My clothes weren’t glamorous anymore.

They were just… volume.

Four oversized boxes full of shoes.

Another giant box filled with designer handbags.

For the first time, my overconsumption wasn’t hidden behind beautiful closet lighting or neatly organized shelves.

It was stacked in black bags and cardboard boxes.

It honestly made me a little sick to my stomach.

Books were easy.

Kitchen gadgets were easy.

But clothes?

Shoes?

Bags?

Those weren’t just possessions.

They were memories.

Identity.

Proof of who I’d been.

I kept wishing someone would simply tell me what to do.

I wanted to hire a professional organizer.

I wanted my husband or my son to say “Kim, you don’t need this.”

I was looking for answers anywhere I could find them.

It helped - but there’s something different about another human looking you in the eye and saying “You’re holding onto a life you’ve already lived.”

Instead, I packed it.

Moved it.

Unpacked it.

And now it’s all here again.

Surrounding me.

Waiting for me to make the same decisions I couldn’t make before.

The difference is that this little condo leaves nowhere to hide.

For the first time, I can clearly see what I own.

And maybe, for the first time, I can clearly see what owns me.

Lately, I’ve found myself scrolling through old photos. If I can find a picture of myself wearing something, somehow it feels easier to let it go. Almost as if the memory has already been safely preserved.

Maybe that’s what I’ve really been afraid of.

Not losing the clothes.

Losing the version of me they represent.

When did I become someone who held onto things so tightly?

Maybe that’s the better question.

What am I afraid I’ll lose if I let them go?

Instead, I met all the women I’ve been.

As I started hanging clothes in my tiny Laguna closet, it hit me. This wasn’t one wardrobe. It was the accumulated evidence of decades spent becoming different women.

Boutique Kim, owner of Clothes Minded. She loved to go on buying trips to find treasures for her favorite customers to make them feel chic and elevated, items they would get compliments wearing. She would peruse the brands at market in New York and Las Vegas, thoughtfully assembling looks for the women who trusted her to help them feel like the best version of themselves.

Rocker Chic Kim lives in studs and leather, concert tees from Greenday and Lenny Kravitz concerts, cool boots and edgy accessories. She danced until her feet hurt, screamed every lyric, and never once worried about tomorrow morning.

Warriors Fan Kim loves her blue and gold jerseys, jackets, metallic Valentino sneakers and Curry caps. She loves acquiring new pieces at every game, seeing the Warriors in the Final Four, cheering Steph on while he set records, and cheering while the confetti fell around her and her family after another Warriors win. The blue and gold and black pieces hold memories of some of the best times.

Vegas Kim believes Vegas is the perfect excuse for black lace, sheer details, and dresses she’d never wear anywhere else. The black Chanel Boy Bag and her chic dresses…these pieces remind her of Bruno Mars and PitBull, drinking Cosmopolitans while playing slot machines and fabulous dinners at fancy restaurants.

Country Kim who loves a quality cowboy boot and a denim jacket, who has line danced and kicked up her heels in Nashville, at Country Thunder and at Red Rocks to see Dierks Bentley, Miranda Lambert and Lainey Wilson. Who took her daughters to Nashville and rang in her 50th birthday on a beer bike riding down Broadway.

New York Kim who wears the refined, edgy, black elevated pieces like Loboutins and a black leather moto jacket. Who has walked from The Whitney to the Met and soaked in the city vibes during every step. Who has waited outside The Mark to see Met Gala looks on celebrities. Whose son lives in the Big Apple and they love to bounce around the city photographing everything they do.

Travelista Kim who loves to pop tags wherever she lands, the newness of the outfits matching the attractions she’s seeing in Japan, Italy, France, England and Denmark. But also loves to acquire new items in all of these fabulous places because the fashion there is so good.

Mom Kim is the one wearing the coziest tee and comfiest lounge pants with a pair of slippers in total chill mode, ready to get down to business in the kitchen with a recipe and her Kitchen Aide mixer. Nothing pleases her more than cooking and baking for her family and there’s no reason to dress up when you’re at home with the ones you love.

And now, Laguna Kim, the girl who wears linen, less makeup and more natural hair styles. This Kim is slowing down, settling in, comfortable in her own skin with nothing to prove and so much life still to live.

And then there’s Writer Kim. She doesn’t have much of a wardrobe yet. She’s the one sitting with a laptop and a cup of coffee, trying to make sense of all the women who came before her. She’s learning that closing a business, downsizing a life and starting over in Laguna Beach isn’t an ending after all.

It’s another chapter.

Do I have to be just one of these at a time, and….do I have to let go of some of these versions that might not be me living my best life?

Maybe the goal isn’t choosing just one version of ourselves. Maybe it’s a carefully curated mixtape of every version of who we’ve been - a woman learning that less can still hold more.

Maybe our closets were never meant to tell one story.

Because every version of us got us here.

She deserves gratitude.

She just doesn’t necessarily deserve closet space.

The trick isn’t keeping every piece.

It’s deciding which ones deserve a place in the next chapter.

I’m curious….how many women are living in your closet?

The truck is loaded, I go out and take a look to make sure my items have all been packed with the TLC they deserve, and suddenly my clothes hanging in their black plastic all along the back opening of the truck look different, they, dare I say, look a little ugly.

It’s an unsettling feeling when the items I had collected, cared for, and loved over the years suddenly make me feel at odds with the pedestal they’ve been on for so long. Of course, the real treasures were tucked safely away in photo boxes and memories, but these clothes held chapters too.

We arrive in Laguna. The walk in closet with ample hanging space plus ample shelves, plus drawers have been replaced with mirrored sliding doors and a few drawers. “Houston, we’ve got a problem” literally goes through my mind. They load those black bags into the closet in a flash and it certainly doesn’t look finished or even slightly good. Once the movers have labored through all the other items we own and everything is situated, I tiptoe into the bedroom with my scissors to have some alone time with my wardrobe. I cut the ties and unbundle the bundles and the clothes burst out and it looks like a bursting sale rack in a store I would never shop in. What happened to the wonderful, beautiful pieces that comprised my closet and were taken on trips to New York, Las Vegas, Japan and Copenhagen? They now looked like something I wanted to run from

.

My husband suggested I grab the rolling rack to use as a tool in organizing. I tried it. The rack quickly became stuffed while the closet stayed as stuffed and now I felt claustrophobic in a place that used to bring me joy. I decided to conquer the shoe boxes. 4 boxes with about 10 boxes of shoes inside. Yep, 40 pairs. Every single pair a “keep” or it would have been consigned or donated before we moved. Where will they all go? My brilliant idea was to just stack them all outside of the closet. It’s been a week, they’re still there. I’ve taken photos of a few and listed them on Poshmark. I’ve worn a few. The rest are standing firm, holding their place.

So here I am, a woman who spent 13 years helping other women navigate change through clothes, standing in the middle of my own biggest transition yet. I’m not sure yet what stays and what goes - in my closet or in this new chapter - but I have a feeling figuring it out might be the best part.

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your story.

Have you ever looked at something you once loved - a closet, a home, a collection, even a version of yourself - and realized it not longer fit the life you were living?

Tell me in the comments. I have a feeling I’m not the only one unpacking a new chapter…