A desperate plea: for the love of god, WEAR MORE SILK!!
On softness, surrender, and the quiet seduction of slowing down.
I used to think comfort was complacency — that softness was something you earned after the work was done.
Silk, in that framework, was indulgent. Something for women who had time to lounge.
I was raised, like most of us, on a steady diet of striving. Even rest was treated like a reward for endurance. “You deserve it,” we say — as if stillness must be justified.
Lately, I’ve been wondering what happens when you stop earning softness and start embodying it.
Because here’s the quiet truth: most overfunctioning women don’t actually rest. What we call “rest” is usually the moment our bodies stage a mutiny — when the tension wins, the battery drains, and collapse poses as calm.
For years, my at-home wardrobe reflected exactly that. The second I walked in the door, I’d change into clothes built for recovery. Soft in texture, but not in spirit.
Everything I wore spoke the same thing: I am trying to bounce back from my own life.
Silk never made the cut.
Silk was for vacations.
For romance.
For the version of me who wasn’t exhausted.
Which meant silk was for a woman who did not exist.
Until one morning — after a week that felt like emotional whiplash — I pulled on an outrageously pink slip dress to make myself coffee.
Not to feel beautiful.
Not to feel better.
But because I genuinely did not know what else to do with myself.
And for the first time in months, my body responded as if the “emergency” was on pause. My breath dropped. My chest loosened. Something unclenched that I hadn’t even noticed was gripping — long before I understood why.
That was the beginning of the lesson: softness isn’t indulgence.
It’s information. A diagnostic. A truth-teller.
Softness as Information
Silk doesn’t let you lie.
It reveals tension instantly — the shoulder you’ve hiked toward your ear, the jaw you’re punishing through your late-night 10-step skincare routine, the get-it-done pacing you drag into rooms meant for rest.
Within minutes, it became embarrassingly clear:
I don’t know how to be in my own home without performing some version of productivity.
The fabric narrated my habits back to me:
A snag when I rushed.
A crease when I contracted.
A strap sliding off like it was physically rejecting my urgency.
It was the first time a piece of clothing held up a mirror and said, “Look at the pace you live at. Look at what you call ease.”
The honesty of that moment was gently humiliating. Not because it was dramatic — but because it was accurate.
The Domestic Interlude
Here’s what silk taught me: the problem was never the tasks — it was the tempo.
I actually love wiping the counters. I love adjusting the throw blanket. I love the small domestic touch-points that make a house feel lived in.1
But I’d been doing all of it with the energy of someone trying to outrun herself.
Silk interrupts that. Not with fluff, but with precision.
The first morning I made my bed in a slip dress, the whole moment shifted. It didn’t feel like maintaining my life. It felt like inhabiting it. Like I wasn’t cleaning up after myself — I was tending to a woman I respect.
Maybe that landed because of where I’m living now.
I’m 31, living in my Grandma Carol’s basement — a woman who understood presence long before wellness culture branded it.
Every night, without fail, she disappears into her bedroom after dinner. Ten minutes later, she reappears in her robe and soft slippers, bob perfectly coiffed, moving through the house like the evening is a chapter she’s been waiting for.
She turns down her bed, waters her plants, folds a towel — not like she’s checking items off a list, but like she’s curating the life she’ll wake up in tomorrow.
Nothing frantic.
Nothing martyr-like.
Nothing that smells like burnout hiding under a scented candle.
Just deliberate, elegant, grounded motion — a woman moving through her space with the confidence of someone who knows she belongs there.
Living with her, I realized: I’ve been treating my home like a place to recover from myself — not a place to experience myself.
Silk shifts that.
It doesn’t slow you down; it sharpens your presence. It adds a level of self-respect to the smallest motions — the kind that creeps into your nervous system and says, quietly but firmly:
You get to feel good in your own life.
Not just when it’s going well.
Especially when it’s not.
Silk doesn’t change the rituals. It changes the woman moving through them.
The Woman You Are When No One’s Watching
Something recalibrates when you start dressing beautifully for the parts of your life you assume don’t matter. When silk enters the mundane, the mundane stops feeling like something to outrun.
You taste your coffee.
You breathe deeper.
You stop attacking your morning like it’s a deadline.
Not because the tasks changed — but because you stopped arriving armored.
Silk interrupts the performance — the “staying ahead” and the invisible load-bearing you do without noticing. It calls forward a different version of you.
The surprise wasn’t the fabric’s softness. It was realizing how much softness I’d been keeping out — as if surrender were the same as collapse, instead of the doorway to relief.
There is a woman I only meet when urgency isn’t narrating the room — slower, steadier, un-defensive. A woman whose instincts aren’t screened through productivity. A woman who moves like she trusts the ground.
She isn’t new.
She’s just been hard to reach.
And silk didn’t create her — it simply cleared the static.
Because when your environment softens, your body tracks a signal it can trust. And suddenly the moment isn’t something to control — it’s something you can receive.
A Working Theory
So, in the spirit of silk and surrender:
Softness is not the opposite of strength.
It’s what strength feels like when it’s not bracing.Comfort isn’t complacency.
It’s what keeps you from confusing adrenaline with purpose.Elegance is nervous system hygiene.
It’s the quiet confidence of not performing for your own life.Silk wrinkles. So does anything alive.
Perfection isn’t the point — presence is.
Maybe self-improvement isn’t always about sharpening. Maybe it’s choosing the things that remind you you’re already enough — and letting your body finally believe you.
So for the love of god: wear more silk!!!
Not because it’s romantic or aesthetic (though it absolutely is), but because it cuts through the hum of survival. Because a body that feels safe enough to soften is a body available to the deepest pleasures of being alive.
#sponsored by a mild case of OCD