The Denim Has Betrayed Me
Look, I didn’t mean to gain 20kg. Nobody ever really does. But trauma has a funny way of doing the heavy lifting when your body can’t. And by lifting, I mean hoarding fat like winter’s coming and I’m a bear preparing for hibernation. In my case, hibernation was Adelaide, and the emotional buffet came with a side of wine and existential dread. And when you’re 5’2, twenty kilos isn’t just “a little weight.” It’s the difference between cute waist belts and suddenly looking like the belt is the outfit.
I went from wearing high-waisted everything and looking like a Pinterest board come to life, to shuffling around in maxi dresses that made me feel like I should be hoeing potatoes in a field with a bonnet on. The betrayal was real. Every zip that wouldn’t close. Every pair of jeans that screamed at the thighs they once adored. Clothes I once strutted in became fabric-shaped reminders of a body I didn’t recognise anymore.
And worst of all? I felt like I had lost my style. Because when nothing fits, and everything squeezes or sags in weird places, getting dressed feels like punishment. Like your wardrobe is mocking you in polyester whispers. But here’s the thing I learned: style doesn’t come from the number on the tag. It comes from the way you decide to show up, even when everything feels uncomfortable.
Maxi Dresses Are Not a Personality
I have lived many lives. But none quite as tragic as my “just throw on a maxi dress” era. I thought I was being chic and boho. Turns out, I looked like I was about to offer someone scones in a paddock. Maxi dresses were my safety net. They didn’t judge my thighs, and they let me pretend I wasn’t spiralling. But they also made me disappear.
Here’s what I figured out: you can still dress well when you hate everything, but you have to let go of who you were. Your old favourite jeans? That perfect blazer? They’re in the past. Grieve them. Hold a tiny memorial if you must. But then move on. Because right now, in this version of your body, you deserve clothes that fit you now.
I started buying button-down dresses that skimmed the waist but didn’t cling. I hunted down wrap dresses that highlighted my chest and gave me shape. And I leaned into fabric that didn’t make me sweat like a roast chicken under a heat lamp. Basically, I stopped dressing for who I used to be and started dressing for someone who still deserved to look put together.
Stop Trying to Hide
When I gained weight, my instinct was to go full camouflage. Big cardigans. Billowy skirts. Anything that said, “Don’t perceive me.” But I just ended up looking like a couch with abandonment issues. Hiding doesn’t help. It just makes you feel even more out of place in your own skin.
So I started dressing into my shape, not away from it. Not to show it off. Not to pretend I loved it. But to say, “This is the body I have today, and I’m not going to punish it.” I wore mid-rise tailored trousers (never elasticated waists, they only emphasised the chub) with billowing blouses tucked in and a belt to fake a waistline. Structured pieces helped me feel like I still had my life together, even if I was crying over a baguette.
It’s not about shrinking or tricking the eye. It’s about remembering that you still deserve to be seen. Even in the in-between. Even before the weight loss. Even when your confidence feels like it packed a bag and left for the coast.
Accessorise Like Your Life Depends on It
You want to know what still fits when nothing else does? Earrings. Necklaces. Bags. Belts (again, never elasticised, we’re not shopping at Millers). I built a whole aesthetic around looking expensive from the neck up. Gold hoops, oversized sunnies, and a red lip can distract from a multitude of sins. Including, but not limited to, crying in a Zara change room.
When I couldn’t change my shape, I changed the vibe. I started styling my hair more. Doing my makeup like I actually had plans. Wearing perfume just to go to Woolies. I wore linen shirts half-buttoned with a bold necklace (and even bolder cleavage) and called it Parisian chic. Confidence doesn’t come from the mirror. It comes from tricking your reflection into thinking you’re that girl.
Also, shoes. Never underestimate the power of good shoes. Platforms, loafers, even a cheeky pointy toe can elongate you just enough to feel human again. You might be crying, but you’ll be crying in stilettos.
You Are Still Hot
Listen to me. Your body changed. You didn’t stop being beautiful. You didn’t stop being stylish. You just hit a weird patch where your reflection feels unfamiliar. That doesn’t mean you lost your shine. It just means you need a new game plan.
When I finally stopped hating my wardrobe and started adapting it, things shifted. I made peace with the fact that style isn’t static. That sometimes, confidence is just wearing something clean, brushing your hair, and standing up straight. And that sexy doesn’t live in your dress size. It lives in the way you carry yourself to the letterbox like it’s Milan Fashion Week.
So if you’re standing in front of your wardrobe right now, in your undies, fighting back tears because nothing fits and everything feels wrong, hear this: you are not a failure. You are not alone. And you are not destined to wear sad sack dresses for the rest of your life. You are still hot. You just need to meet yourself where you are.
And maybe… buy the stretchy jeans. Trust me.
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