What We Keep

January 18, 2026

I’m not sure if you’ve picked up on this about me yet, but I have attachment issues.

I blame my mom leaving when I was little.

And my dad not being around much.

And an overall atmosphere of neglect.

You know.

The standard mommy and daddy issues many of us carry around with us.

I’m not special.

But sometimes—okay, often—

I get attached to things that other people might find silly.

Like clothes.

Not all of my clothes.

Just some of them.

Specifically, my event wear.

My performance outfits.

My evening gowns.

For a girl who lives in Ketchikan—

where there are very few places to wear fancy dresses,

I have an outrageous amount.

I’ve been collecting them since around 2011.

I couldn’t wear the same outfit too many times,

and somehow I ended up doing a lot of singing performances

and emcee work that required an entire wardrobe.

So. I had reasons.

Anyway—I digress.

I’ve hardly worn any of my beautiful evening wear since 2020.

And since then, I’ve lost a lot of weight.

Many of the dresses no longer fit.

A few years ago,

I moved them out of my bedroom closet into a “better” storage spot,

telling myself I’d purge them soon.

That was… a few years ago.

But today, I finally did it.

I went through the dresses and decided what to let go of and what to keep.

It was harder than I expected.

With many of them,

I could remember the exact event I wore them to.

Sometimes even the exact song I sang.

Some were worn while hosting events with my dad.

A few were from the 2011 Diva Show.

Others carried smaller, sweeter memories—

like my mint green polka dot dress that still makes me think of the year I dressed up as Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream for Halloween.

These dresses aren’t just fabric.

They are tangible pieces of my past.

They represent a very special and unique time in my life—

a time when I was performing, expanding, being celebrated.

A time when I felt like I belonged.

Going through them brought up an unexpected surge of emotion.

And with it, tears as I stood there sorting each one into piles:

keep or give away.

And here’s the part that matters.

This isn’t the end of that part of me.

I still have fancy dresses.

New ones.

Beautiful ones.

Dresses that fit the body I live in now.

I still dress up.

I still take up space.

I still belong.

What I was doing wasn’t closing a door—

it was letting go of what once was, with gratitude.

In the end, I kept the most meaningful dresses.

Not because I think I’ll wear them again,

but because someday, when I’m older,

I want to share them with my grandkids.

I want to let them play dress-up in a life that was once mine.

To tell them stories about who I was. Who I created.

It was just a small moment in my weekend.

But it highlighted a chapter of my life that was absolutely incredible—

And reminded me that letting go is how I make room for what’s next.