Dress Like a Rom-Com in Love, and a Lumberjack After
As I prepare to say goodbye to my twenties, I find myself hoping to also say goodbye to the heartbreaks that tend to come with this decade.
Not just the romantic ones, but the slow-burn griefs — the drifting friendships, the versions of myself I’ve shed, the dreams I had to archive. But yes, especially the heartbreaks with boys who made me feel a little too much — first good, and then, ahem… a mess.
What does this have to do with clothes? Honestly… everything.
A couple of months ago, I started noticing how closely my wardrobe mirrors my emotional seasons. It’s almost funny. When I’m in the early stages of liking someone — you know, that fiery, uncertain phase — I dress like I’ve walked straight out of a 90s romcom.
Soft tops that fall off the shoulder just right, skirts that swish when I walk, a hint of something sheer, a neckline that says, “I didn’t try, but I know you noticed.”
It’s coy. It’s playful. A little sexy. And deeply rooted in comfort — the kind of outfit that lets you giggle over wine without tugging at your hemline every five seconds. It’s dressing with hope.
With a little skip in your step.
It’s clothes that say, “I just threw this on,” while having tried on five hundred things before landing on this one. It’s dressing like maybe… this could be something.
The energy on a first date after crushing for a while? Electric.
There’s that beautiful chaos of trying on half your closet, wanting to look like your best self — but also your real self. You’re calculating the right amount of perfume, wondering if this skirt is too much… or not enough. The right outfit for a first date isn’t just about style — it’s about courage.
It’s saying: I care. I’m open. I’m ready for a maybe.
And then love happens. Or it doesn’t.
And sometimes it ends before you’re ready.
That’s when the wardrobe shifts. One day you’re giggling in a soft little dress, the next, you’re in oversized clothes, trying to remember how to take up space without them. There’s a heaviness — not just in your chest, but in your closet. You start avoiding pieces that once felt romantic. The top you wore the night they said you looked beautiful feels too loud now. The dress you wore on that weekend away? Buried.
Suddenly I’m living in shirts three sizes too big. Sweatpants that feel like emotional bandages. I start dressing like a stylish lumberjack with a broken heart. It’s not just comfort dressing — it’s almost like I’m building walls with fabric. Hiding in layers, or filling the void. Creating distance with denim and dull colors. It’s a quiet way of saying: Don’t look at me too hard. I’m still bleeding a little.
But over time, something gentle happens.
Clothes start to soften again. A little color sneaks back in. A shirt I haven’t worn since happier times feels wearable once more. I find myself reaching for pieces that feel more me — not the me who was in love, not the me who was shattered — but the me who survived it. The one who’s healing. The one who still believes in joy.
At The Goodmess, this is the feeling we design for. Clothing and emotions are deeply intertwined. What we wear is often a reflection of how safe we feel in our skin. And when our hearts are going through a lot — whether it’s the high of new love or the low of letting go — our style becomes a way to process. To express. To protect. To transform.
We don’t just make clothes that follow trends.
We create pieces that hold space for who you’re becoming.
Maybe you’re in love. Maybe you’re in limbo. Maybe you’re rebuilding after a relationship that cracked you open. Wherever you are — we hope our clothes help you feel like yourself again.
Or maybe even better — like a self you’re just beginning to meet.
Fashion, at its best, isn’t just about looking good.
It’s about feeling held.
The good, bad and the ugly of being in love
The emotion that makes us feel all the emotions of this universe!