2019 will be 10 years of me blogging, personally, in this space. The name and content may have changed (for one I am significantly less angsty, thank you time and BCP), but it's interesting to have that big round number in front of you and wonder what you have to show for it. Do I even remember why I got into sharing my outfits? It was probably about 75% inspiration from others already killing the game, and 25% of my own hubris that made me feel like I still had something unique to add to the conversation. And honestly, the things that motivate me to continue change - not constantly, but enough.

I don't feel particularly unique anymore, and I think the absolute breadth of the bloggers out there (even in the inbetweenie/plus size space) is unique in a way it never has been before, but somehow I still find it hard to discover and follow women that feel like me. That are not only shaped the way I am, but are intrigued and attracted to the same kinds of clothes I am, because sometimes? Sometimes I don't want to be the one who tries it first - I'd like someone to be able to tell me if it's a waste of time. I still remembering running around SoHo this past summer, trying on all the "cool girl"/sustainable brands that had taken Instagram by storm, and pretty much all of them looking like shit on me. I'm a big believer that "it's the clothes, not you" but whoa buddy, there comes a time when there are only so many strangely fitted size 12/Larges/X-Larges/One Sizes before you start to take it personally.

And on that personal note, I'd like to end on discussing how 2019 will also be the 10th anniversary of my mother's death.  Which doesn't even sound real when I say it. I'm not the first or last to have a parent pass suddenly, but the more time passes the more I realize that there will come a day when I will have been alive longer without my mother than with her, and what the absolute fucking bullshit that is. I miss her all the time. I think embracing my anger at well, almost everything the last couple of years, has possibly only made me miss her more, because I'm more willing to express how unhappy I am, and how I think things would be easier with her here. I would like to think that she would be proud of me. That she would think I'm doing well at navigating the waters of full-time work and part-time hobbies (that are never quite as hobby as they should be).

So here's to 2018 - a year with more anger than I thought my body could contain, and a closet with less clothing in it now than it started with.