I turned to the internet to tell me how messed up other people thought it was. But I had already decided on migrating about a third of her wardrobe into mine and wearing things, unabashedly.
So maybe the next grieving sibling who googles the same thing I did will come upon this explanation for why I (with a few caveats) think it is not only okay but beautiful to integrate the clothing of those we lost into our wardrobes and our lives.
Her closet has eras: high school, late teen deciding who she wanted to be, young adult grappling with her body size changing and not liking it, and independent woman who leaned in entirely to what she liked and built her life around it. It was only standing in her closet and observing these eras that I realized how much of her most recent era held echoes of our shared past and of influences I may have had on her that I never knew before.
Some clothes in that closet we had bought together—going to a mall to get a coffee, walk and talk about life, and buy clothing was something we had done together since we were young teens. When I began to live far away, we still did it when I would visit home, calling them “sister dates.” For her birthday during the still-pandemic times of 2021, I sent her a nostalgia-filled email conjuring the idea of a mall, asked her to play the same YouTube video of mall background sounds as I did, and we hung out on a video call for a few hours digitally shopping. I sent her favorite pieces as birthday gifts.
Some clothes I had never seen in real life, but we had talked about. The dress she wore to one of her best friend’s weddings a few years back—we discussed over messages what shoes and accessories would work best. The platform boots she bought—only after asking my opinion, because I had worn that style of boots back in high school—to be able to see better at shows stood in the corner. Dozens of shirts from events and concerts she had enjoyed with her partner. I was peeking in on a slice of her life through a hazy window.
Some clothes I had given her from my own wardrobe at various points throughout life. There was something sweet and also saddening about the possibility they would find their way back to me again. She hadn’t wanted to get rid of these clothes, for whatever reason. I hope it was, in part, because it was a connection with me.
As her partner and I, only two weeks after her death, dealt with the less sentimental stuff (the only things we could bear to work on) and I set aside a few things I wanted, I asked myself: Is it okay to wear the clothing of your dead sibling?
I don’t know. I still don’t know. But how can anyone tell me what is or isn’t okay in a world where a 28-year-old in perfectly fine health can go to bed and never wake up again?
In grief, there are times nothing is okay.
But I definitely could not handle the thought of boxing and bagging up every article of clothing she had ever worn—every piece she had selected for herself, every item that defined her style—and dropping them off at Goodwill like normal, everyday discards. If she had been alive and sorting through her things, none of it would have mattered to me. But to just get rid of everything would be a final loss. Almost an erasure that I was not willing to participate in.
I sat sorting through her socks and thinking about other articles of clothing she had. Things I could imagine myself wearing on dates I wish I could tell her about, to work events I would forever want to recount for her later, on trips we should have been taking together.
I will never be able to have my sister back. Our story is over, and it lasted just shy of three decades. But the story I can tell with threads of her life woven throughout it is ongoing.
Some people have spoken about it being like a hug from the person whose clothing it was. I have not yet felt that way myself, but it is a lovely thought. I see this as the final time one of us will be able to go to the other’s closet and nab a coveted piece to wear for a perfect outfit. An end cap to a sisterly ritual we had for half our lives.
Another thought occurred to me recently: What do you say when someone compliments something you’re wearing that belonged to your dead sister?
I have decided my approach varies, depending upon who says it and what I feel I can handle at that moment. But there are three responses, all of which come with a soft smile as I think of the meaning of clothes between us: “thanks”; “thanks, my sister picked it out”; and “thanks, it used to be my sister’s.”
To anyone also contemplating wearing someone’s clothing, I have two things I think you should consider.
First, while as a general rule, I don’t think it’s wrong to wear the clothing, this is a negotiation between you and the people who loved the person who is gone. I will not, for example, be wearing the dress my sister graduated in or the shirt she wore many times at work where she and her partner fell in love. Some objects become relics when those we love die, and it isn’t fair to insist on wearing something that will actively cause pain to someone else just to make ourselves feel better.
Second, I think it is important not to lose ourselves in someone else’s style—even someone as beloved as a deceased sibling. In my case, my sister’s fashion sense had drifted very much toward mine recently, but I will still be very careful to select only the clothes that reflect my own taste. I am still me. My identity is distinct from hers, and just as I cannot wear something to cause others pain, I cannot alter myself in a way that will cause pain to myself. Tread lightly when you pick—you want to treasure what you take, and be sure not to bury yourself in the process.
Author’s note: In my googling, I came across this blog post about the same topic. Maddie’s candid description left an impact on me and I wanted to make sure anyone who came upon mine would also find hers. Peace and love to you.
Unmoored Sister 