My Mom Brought Me Into Her Glamorous, Grown-Up World. Now, I’m Bringing Her Into Mine

Now, as an adult, I will occasionally stumble upon something of my own accord and make the purchase without her. Last summer, I snagged a pair of unisex Desigual jeans with a funky print; I knew I had finally made it when they arrived at the house, my mom eyed them, then bought a pair for herself. But her insights aren’t limited to matters of style. When I decided to make a few life changes, including moving to New York City, she offered advice and unparalleled support, in addition to some cashmere sweaters and a vintage pair of United Nude pumps.

Things seem to be coming full-circle. Since my mom closed Underwraps in 2008, as the economy declined and online shopping grew, it’s been my turn to keep up the fashion talk and find excuses for her to visit the city. But the pandemic threw us for a loop. We largely stopped getting dressed up to go out, or wearing makeup, or lavishing attention on things that suddenly felt superfluous. And then, something even more unthinkable happened: My best friend and biggest support system was diagnosed with mitral valve disorder. She would need open heart surgery, and soon. 

While researching surgeons and treatment risks, our relationship to fashion took a strange turn. We found online communities where people traded tips on hospital attire and recommended shirts that didn’t require you to lift your arms above your head. We found ourselves shopping for front-clasping bras and button-down shirts, and settled on a few loose sundresses that wouldn’t irritate her scars or constrict her chest. We flew to Cedars-Sinai hospital in L.A., which specialized in the surgery for her condition, where I visited her daily in the ICU, reporting back on the street style of Beverly Hills.

After an almost month-long recovery on the West Coast, I returned home with a healthy mom, filled with more gratitude than ever before. Life slowly, but surely, came back to us as the world reopened and she recovered. She bought some sweats for her upcoming stint in cardiac rehab, and I began to pack—out of her closet—for New York.

Being a plane ride apart means we have new rituals now. I’ve gotten to take some winter clothes and a pair of Peter Fox boots off her hands (she won’t need those in South Florida, so I’d might as well get some wear out of them, right?). When she comes up to visit soon, we’ll walk through SoHo and the garment district, reminiscing on the neighborhood she remembers from 30 years ago. But every morning from the office, I send her a photo of what I’ve worn to work. My mom let me into her world young, and now there’s no one I’d rather share mine with.