At 60, fashion helped me heal after my divorce. My divorce hadn’t been a loud, crashing affair; it was a slow, quiet fading out of thirty years of marriage that left me feeling like a piece of furniture in my own home. For a long time, I wore nothing but beige cardigans and sensible shoes, trying to blend into the wallpaper so I wouldn’t have to face the world as a “single woman of a certain age.” But then, I discovered the joy of a silk scarf, the power of a well-tailored blazer, and the absolute thrill of a pair of emerald green boots. I started dressing for the woman I felt like on the inside—vibrant, curious, and finally free to be herself.
My daughter-in-law, Beatrice, didn’t see it that way. She mocked me for it constantly, calling my new wardrobe “desperate” or saying I was “trying too hard to catch a second husband.” Whenever I showed up to Sunday dinner in something slightly adventurous, she’d give me that pitying look and make a comment about how “brave” I was to wear such colors at my age. I let it go because I loved my son, Harrison, and I adored my eight-year-old grandson, Oliver. I didn’t want to cause a rift over a few leopard-print accessories and a bit of red lipstick.
Last week, I took Oliver Christmas shopping at a large mall just outside of Birmingham. It was one of those cold, crisp December days where the air smells like woodsmoke and anticipation. We were having a wonderful time, darting in and out of toy stores and grabbing hot chocolates with extra marshmallows. I was wearing my favorite faux-fur coat and a vintage wool hat that made me feel like a movie star from the 1940s. It was the kind of outfit that made me stand a little taller and smile at strangers.
However, as we sat down on a bench to rest our feet, I noticed him staring at me weirdly. Oliver is usually a chatterbox, but he had grown quiet, his eyes fixed on the bright purple hem of my skirt. He looked conflicted, shifting his weight from side to side while twisting the strap of his backpack. My heart sank because I assumed Beatrice had finally gotten into his head with her negativity. I braced myself for a hurtful comment about how I looked ridiculous or how I should dress like a “normal” grandma.
Out of nowhere, he looked up and said, “Mom says you’re only dressing like this because you’re sad and trying to hide that you’re lonely.” The words hit me like a physical blow, sharper and more painful than any of Beatrice’s direct insults. I felt a sudden rush of heat to my face, and for a second, I looked down at my colorful boots and felt foolish. I wondered if she was right, if all this color was just a mask for the empty house I went home to every night. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady so I wouldn’t scare him.
“Do I look sad to you, Oliver?” I asked softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. He tilted his head, looking me up and down with that brutal honesty that only children possess. “No,” he said slowly. “You look like a superhero who lost her cape but found a really cool coat instead. But Mom told Dad that you’re ‘burning through his inheritance’ on fancy rags to keep from crying.”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. I knew I wasn’t wealthy, but my divorce settlement had been fair, and I worked part-time at a boutique to support my “habit.” I certainly wasn’t spending Harrison’s future on my closet, but it hurt to know that Beatrice saw my self-expression as a financial threat. I realized then that her mockery wasn’t just about fashion; it was about her own insecurity and her desire to control the narrative of my life. She wanted me to be the quiet, fading grandmother who stayed in her corner and saved every penny for the next generation.
We finished our shopping in a bit of a daze, but I made sure Oliver had the best day possible. I bought him the LEGO set he’d been eyeing and we laughed at the giant Christmas tree in the atrium. When I dropped him off at their house that evening, Beatrice was standing in the doorway, looking perfectly polished in her neutral tones. She gave my coat a disdainful glance and thanked me for taking him out, her voice dripping with that false sweetness she saved for “polite” company. I just nodded and drove home, the silence of my car feeling heavier than usual.
A few days later, I was at work when a woman walked into the boutique. She looked exhausted, her eyes red as if she’d been crying in the car. She told me she had a gala to attend for her husband’s company and she felt “too old and invisible” to find anything that would look good. I spent two hours with her, pulling colors she never thought she could wear and showing her how to highlight her best features. When she finally looked in the mirror wearing a deep navy gown with silver embroidery, she burst into tears—but this time, they were happy ones.
“I haven’t seen myself like this in twenty years,” she whispered, touching her reflection. In that moment, I realized that my “desperate” fashion wasn’t just for me. It was a language of hope I was sharing with other women who felt like the world had moved on without them. I realized I wasn’t hiding sadness; I was celebrating the fact that I had survived it. I went home and decided that I wasn’t going to let Beatrice’s comments shrink me back into the beige cardigans of my past.
On Christmas Eve, we all gathered at Harrison’s house for dinner. Beatrice had insisted on a “sophisticated” theme, which meant everyone was dressed in shades of gray and black. I walked in wearing a vibrant, floor-length silk dress in a stunning shade of teal, paired with a chunky gold necklace. Beatrice’s jaw practically hit the floor, and the room went a little quiet as I handed out the gifts. She started to make a comment about “extravagance,” but Harrison interrupted her before she could get a full sentence out.
“Mom, you look incredible,” he said, and I saw a look of genuine pride in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. “Oliver told me what you guys talked about at the mall. He said he wants to be as ‘bright’ as you when he grows up.” Beatrice turned a shade of pink that matched the rare steak on the table, looking down at her own muted outfit. It turned out that Oliver hadn’t just repeated her insults; he had told his father how much fun I was and how everyone at the mall had smiled when they saw me.
But the biggest surprise was yet to come. After dinner, Harrison pulled me aside into the kitchen while Beatrice was busy clearing the plates. He looked a bit embarrassed but reached into his pocket and handed me a small, velvet box. “I know Beatrice has been hard on you,” he whispered. “But I wanted you to have this. It’s from both of us, really, but I picked it out because it reminded me of the ‘new’ you.” I opened the box to find a stunning brooch in the shape of a bird, encrusted with multicolored gemstones.
“Oliver told me you were a superhero,” Harrison said with a wink. “And every hero needs a badge.” I realized then that while Beatrice had been whispering in his ear, Harrison had been watching me actually live my life. He saw that I was happier, healthier, and more engaged with the world than I had ever been during my marriage. My “fancy rags” hadn’t been a sign of a breakdown; they were the uniform of a woman who had finally decided to show up for herself.
Beatrice eventually apologized, though it was a stiff and awkward thing. She confessed that she had been struggling with her own sense of identity as she approached forty, and seeing me flourish at sixty had made her feel like she was doing something wrong. We sat together on the sofa, and I ended up giving her some advice on how to find her own “spark” again. It wasn’t about the clothes, really; it was about the permission to be seen.
I learned that the people who mock your joy are usually the ones who are most afraid of their own. Fashion didn’t heal me, but the courage to be bold did. It gave me a way to communicate with the world when I felt like I had no voice left. Now, at sixty-one, I don’t dress to “catch” anything—I dress to celebrate the fact that I’ve already found myself. My house isn’t empty; it’s full of the vibrant woman I spent sixty years trying to meet.
True style isn’t about following trends or looking younger; it’s about the honesty of expressing who you are at this very moment. Don’t let anyone tell you that your time to shine has a deadline or that your joy is “desperate.” If you feel like wearing emerald boots or a faux-fur coat, put them on and walk out that door with your head held high. You aren’t hiding your life; you are finally living it out loud.
If this story reminded you that it’s never too late to find your own color, please share and like this post. We all need a little reminder to stop dressing for others and start dressing for ourselves. Would you like me to help you find some inspiration for your own “superhero” wardrobe or help you draft a response to someone who is trying to dim your light?
