Issue 59. Getting dressed when the world is falling apart

Can we access self-compassion when everything feels bleak?

It’s easy to dismiss our own pain when we compare it to suffering on a grand scale. We tell ourselves to be grateful, to keep things in perspective—Palestinians are dying, Ukraine is still under attack, and federal employees are being fired without warning. And yet, we’re still feeling it all, directly or indirectly.

When our baseline level of stress, grief, or overwhelm is already high, even the smallest things can feel unbearable. Clothes not fitting like they used to, a change to routine, or feeling misunderstood by a loved one—things that might otherwise be manageable suddenly feel insurmountable. I know this firsthand. When the weather warmed up earlier this week, I pulled out my summer clothes only to discover a few pieces no longer fit. In addition to grieving the clothing I expected to wear this summer, I felt a sense of shame that I’ll probably need to buy more clothing than I originally intended to.

And then there’s the ever-present fear of losing my full-time job—I’m three years into a "contract to hire" position, and despite encouragement from my team, no corporate job is secure anymore. That looming uncertainty adds a weight that makes everything else feel heavier. But I feel like I shouldn’t complain because I am employed, and so many are not.

But this is exactly why it hurts so bad. It’s not because I’m weak; it’s because I’m already hurting. A single drop overflows the cup not because the drop is too big, but because the cup is already at its limit.

Self-compassion begins with acknowledging this reality. It’s about refusing to measure our struggles against a larger, more "valid" suffering. It’s about holding space for both—understanding that we can grieve the state of the world and still mourn a personal loss, that we can care about injustice and still allow ourselves to be upset about something that, to an outsider, might seem trivial. I’m trying to remind myself that it’s okay to grieve the clothing that no longer fits, and find joy in the process of finding pieces that do.

Joy and pain are not in competition; they coexist, tangled together in the complexity of being human. In a world that is both beautiful and brutal, choosing joy is not a betrayal of those who are suffering—it is an act of survival.

By allowing ourselves to feel fully—whether that be sadness, frustration, or satisfaction—we give ourselves the grace to exist as we are, without condition. The world will always be heavy, but that does not mean we must always carry its full weight. We deserve joy, even in difficult times. Perhaps especially then.

And so, in the next few weeks, I will share what I’m buying this spring, publish episodes of the Intuitive Style podcast, and continue to write about personal style—not in spite of the difficult times, but perhaps because of them.

Best,

Maureen

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