(I’ve really indulged in longform here. Read in full via the Substack app or online. )
This is a piece I’ve been been sat on for a while. For a long time I was afraid to share it and then when I was ready, it was rejected and never got commissioned. What with it now being a year since my dear friend Emily (Em) passed away, serendipitously now feels like the right time. This platform feels like the right place too, there’s no agenda here, no edit, no plug, I’m just sharing.
Unsurprisingly dressing whilst grieving isn’t such a hot take for magazine editors and even less surprising is the British stiff upper lip. When it comes to grief, us Brits are completely crap at it. Beyond the fusty flowers, red-wine-stained wake lips and trays of homemade pies left on the doorstep (although we do really love these), we’re lost for words.
To be clear I’m not professing to be a grief expert or a style guru here, but I do think it’s worth sharing anything that might help. For me, when shit hit the fan, when I felt as though I lost all sense of time, clarity and what was important in life, it was in fact the menial ritual of digging into my wardrobe, of dressing Up with a capital U, that helped slot a tiny jigsaw piece of me together. I’m aware of how trivial this sounds but I also know that after Em shaved her head, after she went through numerous rounds of gruelling chemotherapy her style really levelled up.
The new Emily wore dresses whatever the occasion, she favoured the bright colours and uplifting patterns of Pink City Prints. Even her hospital garb was elevated AF, cocooned in baby pink cashmere or rainbow hued tracksuit bottoms. She hadn’t lost herself, if anything her newfound style screamed her. Clothing became a lifeline for her, an expression of unashamed joy and frivolity amongst the endless hospital appointments and unfathomable pain. Her outfits were giving the finger to cancer. If it was a good enough excuse for her, it sure as hell was good enough for me.

But let’s be clear, I wasn’t weeping in gowns or from behind the chic netting of a black headpiece-although hats off to you if you are. My clothing choices post Emily’s death resembled my foggy thoughts. Comfort was of course key. I shuffled inside and outside the house in my striped grandpa slippers. I went to sleep and woke up in the same bobbly jumper; I really took the daywear to nightwear trend to heart. There wasn’t even a thought of ‘This will do’, there were no thoughts, it was just survival. The disbelief had stunned me.
Of course the layers, the looseness, the warmth were exactly what I needed in those initial months, and still are key for me in moments of grief now and forever will be. I needed the layers to hold me, to strengthen me against the horrors of the outside world. I needed looseness for I couldn’t commit to anything, I needed to be in my own undisturbed space for a little while. I needed constant hugs and if I could’t get one in real life, the warmth of a jumper would do just fine.


I remember the trepidation before the first time I saw my girlfriends all together since the funeral. I think collectively we were all nervous. Hanging out without Emily hadn’t worked previously, it all felt wrong for she was the spirited glue that stuck us together, the mischievous one. How could we fit without our Em? The balance and chemistry was all off, but at some point we had to face the devastating truth and be together around the kitchen table, just as she would have wanted us to be.
On this occasion, I didn’t stray far away from the trusty cup-of-tea-equivalent outfit—baggy jeans and a wooly jumper—but this time I dared to slide on a dark berry lipstick and slipped on my favourite second hand leopard print Prada shoes. I remember one of my girlfriends said I looked “very Reformation", not a style reference I normally pick from, but it felt so good to take a compliment, to even care; proof in itself that I was on the slow road to healing, as shallow as that sounds. My complimentary friend was wearing her trusty leather studded trousers that night, also very Ref. Looking at it now I suppose Ref slots into the ‘demure’ style trend of today. It’s not ‘look at me’, but it’s put together, it’s easy. That was all that we could muster that night and that was fucking great. Of course we drank too much and of course we cried but to gather, to attempt a bit of glam, to share memories and laughs was fortifying.

What this period of time reminded me was how much solace can be found tucked between your clothes hangers and drawers. Fashion can sometimes feel like a judgy sixth former or a desperate scramble to keep up, but on this occasion it felt pure. Clothing became a place of safety and a way to positively connect with one another. My choice of outfits literally allowed me to open up again.

Here’s a collection of looks I’ve screen grabbed from that hazy time. I now see that a mad accessory really helped lift my outfits and spirits, whether that be the flash of a primary coloured tight, a fluffy bag, a floral brooch or a jaunty hat. Maybe yours is intricately painted nail art? A ginormous Elma The Elephant style scarf? Or even your boldest set of underwear hidden beneath the heavy swag? Maybe it’s simply your biggest pants and comfiest bra? (My favourite in this category is always Stripe and Stare-yes I’ve worked for them but I buy from them, gift them and love them.)


These pictures are far from curated, I didn't have the energy for that. Moving forward maybe my images will get slicker, maybe they won’t, who cares? This is the first and last time I will mention the chaotic upheaval of my room when trying on clothes. I shall not apologise for it, every other persons is the same. Life is messy and all the better for it.



I woke up this morning to the news that Emily had passed. I also had my cousins wedding that day. It was mad and it was real. So much joy, so much sadness. That day I was living life in slow motion from the back seat. I put on the only thing I ever want to wear when I want to feel bold and brave and that is a suit. This one came via DASKA Fashion. It was everything I needed and more. Both roomy and holding me. You can also pop it in the washing machine which feels like a modern day miracle.
This is what I wore to Emily’s funeral, my Mum’s ‘divorce suit’. She would have laughed at this reincarnation. On the day itself I wore a slick of hot pink eyeliner, a nod to her obsession with all things rosy and wore massive silver heart-shaped earrings. No other notes on what to wear to a funeral. You’re doing your best and that is always enough.
I wore these M and S mary janes relentlessly that winter and will fall back on them once I return to colder climes (I’m currently based in LA). They were the affordable answer to my ongoing lust for the Simone Rocha alternative. I received many a compliment in them and delighted in showing the admirers the shoe’s nippy velcro straps!
And of course there were bows…


Outside of therapy, other things that really helped me were:
Even though sometimes I really didn’t feel like leaving the cocoon of my bed/sofa, walks in nature or just around the block were tremendously helpful.




Cake always, even my dodgy homemade ones.


My social battery dramatically drained immediately after Em passed. My family were really the only people I could make space for.
There’s much more to be said here on grief and dressing, a whole thesis on fashion history to delve into, but sometimes you don’t want it to feel that deep, you just want to feel good. My story here is a very small snapshot of the wider picture, for Emily was a daughter, sister and friend but ultimately a legend that still lives on.
If you want to read more about Emily’s astounding story click here, and as always if you can, please donate to The Lady Garden Foundation.
👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼