I was extremely excited to be going away to university. I had no idea what I was getting into.
I needed new clothes, and I was for damn sure not going to be buying dresses or skirts. I had clothing money, and I was determined to buy myself two pairs of pants.
I’d never bought a pair of pants in my life. I didn’t know my size. I didn’t know what was in style. I didn’t even know where the women’s pants were located in the store. How the heck was I going to accomplish this lofty goal?
I planned my pants-shopping day. Got on the bus. I was going to buy pants—two of them.
I don’t know how many times I walked by that store in the mall, looking in, wanting to go in, feeling embarrassed that I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I walked in, stood there looking for the women’s section, and made my way toward the racks. I was doing it. I was going to find the pants that wanted me to buy them.
Standing there, overwhelmed by all the styles, I was truly confused. I think the saleslady must have sensed that I was completely inept. She asked if she could help me. I don’t know where it came from, but out of my mouth came:
“I’ve recently lost a lot of weight and I don’t know what size I am.”
This was a total lie.
I lied because I didn’t want to explain my religious upbringing—about women not being allowed to wear pants. I was fit, athletic, and perfectly healthy. Heck, I was in the phys-ed program. So no, I hadn’t just lost weight. But that lie felt safer than the truth: I had never been allowed to choose my own clothing. And now I was trying to.
She was gentle and helpful. She chose several styles, cuts, and brands and sent me to the change room. I walked there slowly, then quickly, heart pounding. I tried them on. I came out. She offered suggestions, brought me more options and colours. I don’t remember how long the process took, but by the end of it, I had chosen two pairs of pants that fit—neither one was a pair of jeans. They were cotton: one tan-beige, the other navy blue.
I remember the feeling of anticipation—and the quiet panic that this might be the gateway to hell. I remember wondering what people in the mall were thinking of this university student pacing back and forth outside a store. I remember the quiet elation of completing my purchase.
I remember returning to the dorm, going to my room, and laying the pants out on my bed, staring at them and really absorbing what I had done.
I hadn’t just bought clothing. I had bought a slice of freedom. And I paid for that freedom with more than money—I paid with tears of unlearning.
I had done something that was forbidden to me for most of my life. I had broken one of the unspoken rules that shaped my childhood, my adolescence, and my sense of self. And I did it with my own money—my own choice.
That purchase wasn’t just clothing.
It was defiance.
It was reclamation.
It was mine.
May your small acts of rebellion be a stepping stone on your path of freedom.
With an open and brave heart,
Meagan