I don’t cry about clothes.
Not when ECG seizes light mid-ironing. Not when okro soup backflips onto my white trousers. Not even when my best bra gets kidnapped by the washing machine.But this shirt?This one broke me.
It wasn’t just a shirt. It was the shirt I planned to wear to work after a long, soul-zapping week (Today is only Tuesday but you understand). I’d planned the outfit in my head for days. It was giving “functional bad bitch”; clean, simple, commanding. A soft life uniform, for a soft life I’m still waiting to live.
Then I dug in my laundry basket of washed clothes, picked out the shirt and saw the olive oil stain from Friday’s anointing service. It had soaked right through. Even after two emergency washes with baking soda (morning and night), the patch glared at me like, “And what are you going to do about it?”
I wore something else. I went to work. I even read “Fine Boys” in traffic like I had it together. But I didn’t.
Because I was tired.
Because I left my phone at home.
Because I felt underpaid, under-seen, and one client email away from combusting.
Because I’m trying to be okay in a body that needs warmth, in a country that offers none, while dreaming of countries that might break me in other ways.
That shirt was the last straw.
But here’s what I’m learning:
Soft life isn’t something you perform. It’s something you practice.
It’s the choice to rest when your brain says, “Be useful.”
It’s admitting “I want more” without shaming yourself for being ungrateful.
It’s showing up in whatever shirt survived the day and not letting it define your worth.
So, I’m here. Rotting in bed at 9PM. Plotting my next life move. Feeling like a fraud and a fighter all at once.
But I wrote this. And that counts for something.
Comment prompt that leads to IG if you click it. Or just stays on the blog post comment section?
Ever had something small completely shatter your spirit? What was your shirt moment?