When I Stopped Dressing to Impress

I give myself permission not to feel like I have something to prove, because there was a time I wouldn’t leave the house without slacks, a tie, and nice shoes.

Even if I was unemployed.
Even if I had nowhere to be.
Even if I was just grabbing coffee on a quiet corner in Culver City.

I remember one day, I was sitting outside a café — sweater layered over a button-down, dress shoes crossed at the ankle, sipping something I couldn’t afford but needed to feel normal. Frank Caeti, one of my coaches from Second City, walked by with a few others. We exchanged hellos.

“Are you coming to the show?”
“No,” I said. “Just having coffee.”
Someone asked if I worked at Sony across the street.
“Nope. I’m proudly retired,” I joked — code for unemployed, but still standing.

Frank looked at me and said, “So you actually dress like this all the time? Not just for class?”

I nodded.
He smiled, shook my hand.
“Respect.”

It was one of the few times someone had seen me like that — dressed up for no one, but still trying — and called it what it really was: effort. Not vanity. Not show. Effort. And I was proud of that.

But something changed. Slowly. Then all at once.

Someone once told me, “In Hollywood, people don’t look at your suit. That’s all performance. They look at your shoes — because that’s what you forget to fake.”

And maybe they were right. Because for a long time, the suit was my armor. My shoes were always clean. Even when I had nothing else, I had my wardrobe. It was the one part of my life I could press, iron, polish, and control.

Then COVID happened.
The world stopped looking.
And I stopped trying.

At first it felt like relief. No more pretending. No more pressure.
But then… the relief turned to apathy.
And that apathy turned into something heavier.

I used to be a flight attendant. I loved the uniform. I loved the crisp lines. The way a collar sat against a tie. It made me feel like I had purpose. Presence. Class.

Now? I wear thobes. Two pairs of jeans. Maybe five T-shirts on rotation.
I don’t dress up for friends anymore.
I barely dress up for myself.

Unless it’s a formal gathering, I just… don’t care.

And I wish I could say that was empowering.
That I’m embracing minimalism or rejecting social pressure.
But the truth is less romantic.

I’m just tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.
The kind that comes from years of trying.
Of holding it together. Of performing excellence long after the stage went dark.

I see it in the world too.
At school, I’m the principal. And even I’ve stopped asking why teachers wear jeans and students walk in with slippers. The dress code faded the same way everything else did: slowly, then all at once.

We all got a little lazy.
But maybe lazy isn’t the right word.

Maybe we’re just… worn.

I look back now and realize I’ve spent so much energy being creative, being available, being useful — that the price has been my image. The outer version of me, the one people once admired, has slowly worn thin. But the inner version? The one you don’t see in mirrors? He’s still here. Still fighting. Still building.

That’s why I say it now — not with pride, not with regret.
Just with honesty:

There came a day when I gave myself permission… to be mediocre.
Not to stop caring. Not to give up.
But to stop chasing the illusion that I need to be excellent all the time to be worthy.

And on that day, I made soup.
I turned off the mirror.
And I gave myself back to the stories that saved me — the words, the laughter, the quiet rituals that never judged me by what I wore.

Maybe the suit will come back.

Maybe the man who pressed his collar even when no one noticed… still has a place in this next chapter.

But if he doesn’t — if he stays tucked in the closet a little longer — that’s okay too.

He got me through years where appearances were all I had.
And I’ll always be grateful to him for that.

But right now?
I’m not choosing excellence.
I’m choosing energy.
I’m choosing softness.
I’m choosing enough.

Not because I’ve stopped caring…
But because I finally know that caring for myself doesn’t always need to be so perfectly dressed.

I give myself permission not to feel like I have something to prove.