I looked at my wardrobe and had no idea who I wanted to look like

Dear Delyara, I had somewhere to go, nothing formal enough to justify dressing up and nothing casual enough to wear whatever. I stood there with two tops in my hands and suddenly felt the full emotional stupidity of trying to choose not only an outfit but a version of myself I could tolerate for the evening. Too tired in this. Too old in that. Too invisible in the black jumper. Too hard-trying in the nicer blouse. Too much woman. Not enough confidence. Too practical. Too soft. Too serious. I got dressed in the end. I looked fine. Nobody would have guessed I had a small identity crisis in front of my wardrobe. That is probably what being a woman at this stage of life often is — trying to present a coherent self while still privately negotiating which self feels bearable to wear.