My Favorite Sweatshirt

Proof that sometimes the most ordinary things becomes some of our greatest anchors…

I Swear I’m Not a Hoarder

I’m not a big “stuff” kind of person. That is to say, I don’t love clutter, and I don’t shop just to shop. Don’t get me wrong—I love a new outfit as much as the next person, and if I could get away with it, I’d own my favorite tennis shoes in every single color they make. But if I really think about it, the last time I even bought new clothes was when I got pregnant with Smalls.

The Closet of Failed Replacements

I am, however, sentimental about certain things. There are trinkets, T-shirts, baby toys, and dishes that—regardless of their usefulness—will never see the donation pile. And then there’s my sweatshirt.

This sweatshirt is a full-blown family joke at this point. It’s beaten to hell, the girls have made me promise never to wear it out of the house again, and you can’t actually read the logo anymore. There have been many attempts to replace it, too. I’ve gotten at least one grey sweatshirt for Christmas almost every year for probably eight years now. At first, it was an actual concern that I didn’t have anything to replace it with. Now it’s just a family tradition—one of those hysterical inside jokes that only we get. Honestly, we could open a whole closet section called Mom’s Failed Replacements.

Sixteen and Determined

But here’s the truth: my sweatshirt isn’t kept around because it’s my only option, or because it’s still functional. It’s my little version of a security blanket.

I remember the day I bought it. I was 16 (yes, you can do the math on that one… LOL) at the J. Crew outlet store in Branson. I had ONE goal that day: this sweatshirt. I think it was actually summer when I bought it, but that didn’t matter. It was the headlining piece, the “it” sweatshirt, and I’d seen older girls at school wearing it.

Name brand clothing wasn’t really a top priority in my world growing up. Please understand—my mom kept me well dressed and I never did without—but there wasn’t throwaway money for things like this. I had saved for this sweatshirt with birthday money, babysitting gigs, and probably by skipping lunch a time or two. No sane parent on a budget would spend what was probably $75 on a plain grey logo’d sweatshirt in 2001. But I was determined, and when I finally bought it, I was proud of it.

More Than Fabric

I wore the hell out of this sweatshirt over the years. It came and went as a staple item, but it was always there, waiting for me at the top of the closet pile. Oddly comforting. Like, no matter what was changing in each season of my life, there was this single item that worked for all of them.

It turns out, the sweatshirt wasn’t just a sweatshirt. It became a witness, a keeper of stories, and somehow, a tiny piece of stability in a life that was anything but static. This sweatshirt, with all its tears and flaws, has been with me through it all: laughter and tears, meeting my husband, kissing my babies for the first time, goodnights and prayers on my knees. It’s seen me stumble, restart, fail completely and try again. And maybe that’s the reason I keep it. This warm comfort that I don’t always have to be striving, proving or achieving. Sometimes, it’s enough to just be.

Frayed but Fierce

And here I am, twenty-plus years later, with that same sweatshirt. Bringing it out like a personal security blanket whenever I need comfort or calm. Laughing at the frayed edges and still finding it beautiful in its own way as I hope that my own frayed edges can be appreciated.

There is wear and literal tear in that old sweatshirt, and there is wear and tear in me too, but for the moments when I feel like that’s all anyone could ever possibly see, I’m reminded that I love something battered because of how it’s still somehow held together, and I hope that people can see that in me too.

Your Turn

Maybe you don’t have a sweatshirt. Maybe it’s a blanket, a chair, a song, a recipe card, or something else entirely. Whatever it is, I hope you hold on to it. Because life is loud and messy and fast, and sometimes we forget who we are in the middle of it all.

Those little anchors—those reminders that we’ve been proud, that we’ve endured, that we’ve loved and been loved—matter more than we realize.

The memories stitched into them aren’t perfect. They’re made up of the good and the bad, the victories and the heartbreaks. But all of it together is part of this strange, beautiful learning process we call living. And while I know I’m supposed to be grateful for the lessons, there are days I don’t want another “opportunity for growth.” On those days, I just want to be comforted. To be held. To wrap up in something that reminds me I’ve made it this far—and that’s enough.

Gospel & Grit