The Overalls that Changed My Life

This is the story of a pair of overalls, and a girl who never really knew how to be who she was.

Like most teenagers, I wanted to be accepted, to be found interesting and valuable. In my mind, this equated to being cool. People admire cool people or, at least, I did; those magnetic people who seem to know exactly who they are while giving less than two shits about other people’s opinions of them.

I desperately wanted to be that person.

Unfortunately for me, I was not cool. Let’s be honest, I’m still not cool, but I can get away with it a bit more easily in the wide world of adulthood where there is more room for eccentricity. As a 16-year-old girl trapped in the petri dish of a small high school, a girl who loved to read fantasy and romance novels, answered questions in class, debated with her teachers, and snubbed the usual forms of establishing the adolescent pecking order—boyfriends, football games, and whispering about who went to the dance with whom—I was far less equipped to deal with the consequences of my un-cool nature.

I thought clothes were the key to unlocking coolness, but I never managed to get the hang of creating a compelling ensemble…and my classmates could tell.

Nothing is less cool than wanting to be cool.

Maybe it was that unfulfilled desire to be admired that caused me to drag my longing for coolness into adulthood, or maybe it’s just human nature to care about how one is perceived but, whatever the reason, I’ve always been overly concerned about how other people see me.

This has resulted in the gross misuse of my bed as a dumping ground for every item of clothing I find unsuitable while trying to decide what outfit would be most fitting for a workshop, a job, or a trip to the grocery store; hours agonizing over whether this pair of jeans caused muffin-top, or those shorts made my ass look like it was sliding down the backs of my legs, or whether that jacket would make me look like I was trying too hard.

This critical tendency transferred itself to my career as well, and I censored everything I wrote, photographed, or shared, with an eye toward making myself pleasing to as many people as humanly possible. It was absolutely fucking exhausting, but people mostly liked me, so I lived with it.

It never occurred to me that not only should I not have to live with it, but that it would be infinitely better, both for me and everyone around me, if I didn’t. Authenticity is inherently polarizing, but it’s the only way to be truthful.

Enter the overalls.

It’s strange that one inconsequential decision could have such profound and far-reaching effects, but here I am, writing a blog post at midnight because I couldn’t get this off my mind.

So, there I was, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, when I happened across a pair of overalls. They were baggy, with thin straps and tightly rolled ankles that reminded me of either a vegetarian gardener wearing a head scarf, or a quirky artist with paint-stained loafers.

I loved them immediately and bought them within seconds.

They’re so far removed from everything else I own—clothes I bought because they flattered my post-baby figure or outfits I hoped would make me look professional—that just the idea of wearing them delights me. I don’t even possess them yet, and already these overalls make me feel more like myself. Why?

I’ve been slowly coming to the realization that authenticity is the only real thing any of us have to offer the world. This change in perspective began when I admitted to myself that the main reason I became and remained a photographer for 10 years was because of the praise.

Mothering is a thankless job, and the validation photography earned me was like a drug. As a creative, of course I enjoyed photography, and I still do. I have no intention of giving it up, but it was that hit of admiration, so addicting, that propelled me to keep making photographs when I found just as much creative fulfillment in painting or sculpting.

It was this realization, that it was the praise and not the work itself I was addicted to, that forced me to understand what it was about creating ANYthing that mattered to me. While I preached the importance of unique creative voice to my photography students, I neglected that honesty in presenting my own work.

If anyone was ever going to give a damn about what I had to say, I was going to have to be honest with myself.

Picture me sitting on my bed, hunched over a small notepad, wracking my brain about what makes me who I am while 3 boys yell through the door about who didn’t get enough time on the PlayStation, and who got hit, and who stole what.

Or, better yet, try penning your core traits sometime if you want a side-trip to the seventh circle of hell.

The good news is that fire is purifying, and I came away with a deeper understanding of myself, which grounded me firmly enough that I could be as authentic as possible when I presented myself to the world as an author as well as a photographer and digital artist.

Fast forward to the overalls…those fabulous, brown overalls. Buying them wasn’t just an impulse purchase, though it was that: it was proof that I am becoming; that I’ve crossed the line from presenting the person I hoped people would admire, to being the person who knows that authenticity will naturally connect me with those people with whom I am supposed to be connected.

I know this because I didn’t buy them thinking that they would make me look pretty, or professional. I bought them because I liked them.

When people see me in those overalls, I won’t look like a fit mom, or pretty lady, or a cool photographer, or an artsy professional…I will look like ME, and that’s what really matters.