what’s in your fall haul

My children might say I know nothing about fashion.

“Eww, Mom. Really? You’re wearing that?”

And truth be told, try as I might, I often get “it” wrong.

What does one wear to the US Open? To a college drop off? Jury duty? A cocktail party during that confusing transitional season when it is summer at noon and November by dinner?

And whatever I end up wearing, I want it to look effortlessly pulled together, as though I casually threw it on without trying too hard. Which, of course, means I tried much too hard.

And it is ironic, because I like clothes. A lot.

I have a full closet (although admittedly, some of its inhabitants are rather ancient). There is a preppy L.L. Bean sweater from the 1980s. A Laura Ashley dress with dramatic statement sleeves from a wedding in the 1990s. And more than a few blazers with exaggerated shoulder pads and shoes that were uncomfortable when I bought them and, despite decades of rest, have shown no signs of rehabilitation.

But really, what happens if they come back in style? I will be ready. (Whose style, I am not certain. But style all the same.)

My closet also holds some rather significant mistakes - pieces I bought with great optimism that have never seen the light of day (or the dark of night, for that matter). Clothes purchased for a person I apparently intended to become, but never did.

Still, I keep them. Because maybe one day…

As I look toward fall through my particularly naïve fashion lens, I am grateful for Instagram and its army of influencers, all far more qualified than I am, posting their annual “fall hauls” - the must-have chunky sweaters, boots, jackets, and workout clothes apparently required to become our best autumn selves.

Which leads me to wonder, what is in my fall haul?

But before bringing in anything new, I first have to put away what accompanied me through the summer—the bathing suits and cover-ups, sundresses and flip-flops. I have to empty the pockets, shake out the sand, and decide what is worth keeping.

Last week, as I was putting away a pair of white jeans—because even I know they are forbidden after Labor Day—I found a receipt from a dinner I had shared with one of our sons. It had been just the two of us, and in the quiet of that evening, we had the chance to dive a little deeper into his life—a rare and treasured moment for me.

Suddenly, those jeans were more than a summer staple. They held a memory.

Clothes do that sometimes. They become quiet witnesses to the lives we were living inside them.

And perhaps that is where this fashion metaphor becomes something more.

Because seasons do not change only outside our windows or inside our closets. They change within us, too. And each new season asks us to take inventory—not simply of what we have been wearing, but of what we have been carrying.

Summer has a way of accumulating things - towels, sunscreen, half-read books, mismatched flip-flops—and expectations. We begin the season with a picture of how it should look - the people we will see, the places we will go, and the plans we will finally have time to make happen.

Some of it unfolds exactly as we imagined. Some of it does not.

By fall, we are left sorting through both—the lovely moments we want to fold carefully and keep, as well as the disappointments we may have carried far longer than necessary.

Our emotional closets can become just as crowded as our real ones.

We hang on to old worries because they are familiar. We keep expectations that no longer fit. We save grudges for special occasions. We hold tightly to former versions of ourselves—and of the people we love—even when everyone involved has long since changed.

We tell ourselves, “Maybe one day…”

Maybe one day I will need this fear again.

Maybe one day that resentment will come back in style.

Maybe one day I will finally become the person I thought I was supposed to be.

But just because something once belonged to us does not mean it still does.

For me, the hardest things to purge are often not the painful ones, but the roles I once wore proudly - the mother who was needed for everything, the daughter who believed her parents would be there forever, the friend who always said yes, the person who kept the peace, made the plan, remembered the appointment, and carried everyone else’s extra sweater.

I felt this most clearly with our daughter this summer. She was working two jobs and managing her life quite independently. She did not need me to instruct her - she needed me to step back and trust her to learn on her own.

We bumped along for a while—frustrated and snippy, each of us tugging at the old fit of our relationship. I kept trying to wear the role of the mother she had once needed.

By summer’s end, I began to understand.

I loosened my grip. She grew more certain in her footing. And together, we found a new rhythm—not because I stopped being her mother, but because I began learning how to mother her differently.

Roles may have fit us beautifully once - they may even have been exactly what a particular season required. But lives change, relationships shift.

Bodies, priorities, and dreams evolve.

That does not mean throwing everything away. Some things are timeless - faith, friendship, laughter, forgiveness, and the people who know the worst about us and love us anyway. Those pieces deserve the best hangers and the easiest-to-reach shelves.

But other things may be ready to go - the need to control every outcome, the habit of taking everything personally, and the belief that everyone else received a secret handbook for life while ours was apparently lost in the mail.

So perhaps my fall haul will be less about what I buy and more about what I choose to carry forward.

I would like to bring curiosity instead of certainty. A little more patience—with other people and with myself. The courage to let those I love find their own way, even when I am fairly certain my way includes fewer potholes. Room for plans to change, people to surprise me, and life to unfold without my constant supervision.

Empty space is important.

Because an overstuffed closet has no room for anything new—not a beautiful jacket, not a different way of seeing things, not even the possibility that the next season might bring something we never could have imagined.

My children may not be especially impressed with this fall haul (apparently emotional growth does not compensate for wearing the wrong shoes). And I am fairly certain none of them will look at me and say, “Wow, Mom. You really got it right.”

But perhaps getting it right is not the point.

Perhaps the best we can do is notice when something no longer fits, have the courage to let it go, and move forward ready to become our best autumn selves. Even if our children find it deeply embarrassing.

Of course, none of this means I am getting rid of the L.L. Bean sweater.

Some things are not clutter - they are vintage.