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Grief as a dressing room

Lynne Baab • Thursday October 1 2026

Grief as a dressing room

I’ve been playing around with word pictures that help me access components of grief. “A world on fire” came from the subtitle of a book that had nothing to do with grief. I just resonated with the subtitle. t feels like my personal world has been on fire for a decade. A small fire at first, then larger and larger. For the past two years, the fire raged. Mercifully, that fire is subsiding.

“Though I cannot see the sun, though the stars have disappeared, I believe God.” These words come from a vivid song that a friend sent me. Yes, grief can feel like an obscured sun, no stars, all darkness. I’m grateful the sun and stars are lighting back up for me.

Grief coach and author, Shelby Forsythia, describes grief as a dressing room. Her wonderful article, “Six powerful grief metaphors that help you make sense of life after loss,” includes five other metaphors. You may enjoy reading about them, and I may write about them someday.

Forsythia writes,

“When you experience a death, breakup, or major diagnosis, your sense of identity is often upended. Who you were may no longer feel accessible. Who you are becoming might feel unknown. That’s why I often choose to see grief as a dressing room — a private space where you try on beliefs, routines, boundaries, coping tools, and ways of being to see what fits now, in your life after loss. Some identities feel completely wrong. Some surprise you. Some you keep for a season and replace later. It’s all part of reclaiming your life post-loss — and learning how to live in a new version of yourself.”

She suggests that we look at our various identities as articles of clothing. “Wife” for me was a comfortable, multicolored dress with beautiful, varied colors. Yes, some darker patterns, but lots of brightness and soothing shades. In my imagination, that garment was gently laid in the grave with Dave. “Caregiver for both Dave and Mom” was an ugly, ragged, stained, and itchy sweatshirt. I was so ready to throw that garment into the rag bin, and I did. Now I still wear a sweatshirt, “caregiver for Mom.” Yes, it’s a bit ragged and stained, but not as completely worn out as the one I wore when I was caregiving for two people.

“Friend,” “sister,” and “grandmother” are three pieces of a lovely, bright, flowing, life-giving outfit. Those clothes were a comfort and joy while Dave was ill, around the time of his passing, and through my grief journey this far. I hope to wear those clothes for the rest of my life, but I guess I have to be willing to let them shift over time.

In her book, Permission to Grieve, Forsythia writes, “These identities make up a part of how you show up in the world, but they are not you.” She wants us to experiment lightly with the items in the dressing room. She gives the example of “creative” as an aspect of identity. She says that maybe before a big loss, “creative” was a pair of bedazzled jeans. When the loss happened, those jeans got thrown away in the storm of grief. Well after the loss, “creative” comes back as a green hat.

Forsythia suggests looking at all aspects of our lives: work, hobbies, talents, faith, household roles, volunteer roles, neighbor, and so on. I wrote earlier that I almost never cleaned the kitchen in my 49 years of marriage. I had to put on a new shirt, “dishwasher and kitchen tidier,” and gosh, it felt new and stiff. Even after just five months, though, I can feel that garment getting softer and somewhat more comfortable.

Some identities shift permanently after a loss. Sometimes old identities reemerge after a loss. Sometimes we need to put on a T-shirt with the words, “I DON’T KNOW,” written in capital letters on the front or back. If you needed to put those words on a garment, would it be a T-shirt or a sweatshirt? Would the words be on the front or back? What color would you choose? What size and font? In what settings would you especially want to wear that garment?

Forsythia concludes,

“Seeing grief as dressing room makes space for uncertainty, experimentation, and trial-and-error. It tells the truth: rebuilding is never linear — it’s always changing. And while you can’t always choose what identities are available to you, you have the power to try out the identities or practices you do have control over as you figure out what fits you in life after loss.”

Creator God, you clothed Adam and Eve in beautiful animal skins when they had to leave the garden. We wear clothes every day. We chose them when we shop, and we chose them each morning. Give us lightness and curiosity as we try on metaphorical clothes after losses. Help us flex and notice what’s working. Free us from rigid expectations of ourselves. Thanks for your Holy Spirit who comforts and guides us.

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Next week: More about my grief journey.  Illustration by Dave Baab: Me in Salzburg at age 3, wearing clothes chosen by my mother. There’s another fun thing to think about. When is it appropriate for others to choose our “clothes” or influence our choices of clothes?

Previous posts about identity:

A book of Dave’s watercolors is here. You can buy cards, T-shirts, bags and other items with Dave’s watercolors on them here.

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