Being Seen (even when you're afraid)
Reflections on being publicly honored
In my life “before” (that’s before Brad died for those who are new around here), I ran my own styling business. My job was to help women bridge how they felt on the inside (or wanted to feel) with how they looked on the outside.
I spent countless hours inside women’s closets, holding space for their skeletons and secrets, their insecurities and “imperfections.”
We’d try on every single article of clothing they owned and I would pay attention to their response. Did they stand up straighter? Did they light up? Did they strut?
Those cues - more than fit or style - mattered most.
We talked about why we hold on to certain items (guilt, emotional attachments, desire for a past version of ourselves) and how to let go to make space for our truest selves.
It wasn’t about what was trendy or what was proportionally correct. It was about how someone felt. It was about an outward expression of who they aspired to be.
In their closets, I was able to create a space of mutual trust, hold space for their fears, and be a witness to their transformation. I loved the intimacy and vulnerability that came with the job.
In 2016, at the height of my business, I was hired to take part in the ATHENA Leadership Awards in Detroit. My job was to style all the nominees so they felt their most authentic selves as they were honored at the luncheon. Hearing stories of these powerhouse women and their accomplishments was one of the most inspiring times of my styling career. But it was also the most eye-opening.
When you are standing, half-naked in a dressing room with a stranger, facades are stripped down and vulnerabilities are laid bare.
Even the most successful, accomplished, beautiful women had body issues, insecurities, and fears. And the question that came up over and over again:
How do we reflect outwardly who we really are?
At the end of the day, we all just want to be seen.
It was both the most intimidated and the most confident I’d ever felt in my job.
It was also the last styling job I ever did.
Shortly after that event, Brad died, and with him that version of my life.
I purged everything. My style, my confidence, my sense of self. My job, my friends, my home.
It all shifted.
Stripped down bare and my grief exposed raw, I struggled to find my place in this world.
My only balm was writing. And not quietly in the confines of my journal, but loudly and with a messy vigor - like an erratic child, making her mark across the page.
I didn’t understand it at the time, but I know now that what I was craving was a desperate desire for my grief to be witnessed - for my pain to be felt.
What I wanted was to be seen.
At the end of the day, we all just want to be seen.
But we live in a society that shies away from grief - one that encourages us to “look away,” that asks us to be “fine,” and applauds us when we “move on.”
I longed for someone to sit with me in the too-small dressing room of life after loss and unveil my cloak of grief.
The catalyst behind the Forced Joy Project is that we all deserve to be seen.
Our internal emotion merits an outward expression. Our narrative is owed an audience.
Everyone’s grief deserves to be seen. To be held. To take up fucking space.
Last week, in a full-circle moment, that idea was validated as I was nominated for the local chapter of the ATHENA Awards here in Traverse City. This time, I wasn’t dressing the nominees, I was one. And in a room full of strangers (and a couple friends), space was made for my grief, my story, and my business.
But being nominated wasn’t just about my work or my words. It was about all of us. Being nominated acknowledged the importance of creating trust, holding space, and bearing witness to our collective stories. It was one example of how our individual stories can create societal change. It shows that sharing - in big and small ways - about those we’ve lost matters.
Being nominated validated that our grief deserves to be seen, not just by grievers, but by everyone else.
We all deserve to be seen.
Thank you for that honor and that acknowledgment.1
And because you can’t write an entire post on style and being seen, here’s what I wore. A full-on denim pantsuit that I bought a year ago because I imagined myself wearing it at a book signing event. For my own, yet-to-be-written book. Dress for the part you want people.
In full disclosure, the day before this event, I sent a voice memo to my friend (and the emcee of the event, Dana Black) saying, “I’m afraid to be seen.” As proud as I was of this nomination, I felt utterly exposed and naked. We all deserve to be seen, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to be seen.
Her response was to put on my big girl pants(uit) and let people see. So thank you, Dana for the tough love and for allowing me to feel honored and deserving of this recognition. You are hilarious and talented and I’d pay to watch you tie your shoes on stage. You are that good. But you already see that :)
As I've said before in Forced Joy - you are so FREAKING deserving of this honor! You have given all of us grievers (widows, widowers, parental loss, child loss and all the other kinds of loss that exist) a place to feel seen, accepted and to find others in the same place we are! I've learned so much from you over the last 2+ years, so thank you for putting your big girl pantsuit on and accepting the recognition that you have worked your ass off for!!!! <3
Brilliant. I wrote ravenously, publicly, after my sons death, too— I couldn’t talk, but I needed to be witnessed. I still do, but it has become challenging as time marches on— I feel intensely vulnerable, almost 10 years later, because it often feels like I am still the only one talking about grief that I know. I’m grateful for your fearless sharing! Thank you for all your doing to keep grief visible. Congratulations on your much deserved nomination!