What To Wear In The Liminal Space Of Grief

Everything fell apart. And still, we tried to make something beautiful.

Every morning since April 19th, I lift a veil of grief off my face. It feels like walking into a spiderweb—invisible, sticky, clinging to my skin. Getting dressed is different now. Grief distorts time, seasons, spaces.

Last week, I sat at a café in the Michelberger Hotel, watching the sun finally break through the Berlin gray. Spring is a fickle season there—full of false starts. When the sun does come, it is watery, thin, easily mistaken for a trick of the light. Still, it was a lovely day, and I wondered:

What does one wear when mourning something beautiful?

I wanted to look sharp. I wanted to disappear.

I lay naked on the bed most of the day. The night before, I’d been in the ER, trying to outrun a raging infection from a wisdom tooth extraction. There was a gaping black hole in my mouth, pumping salty blood with every sob and gasp. After hours of bargaining with reality—or whatever gods were out there—I stood up and felt a sudden gush of blood between my legs. My period. Late, as if my body had been waiting for enough room to let it go.

I’d been wearing a fuzzy, pilly cashmere set for three days straight. It smelled like potato leek soup, stress sweat, and Aesop hand cream. I showered. Let the hot water knead my back. Toweled off. Rifled through my overnight bag—no longer overnight, just indefinite—and pulled on the extra sweatpants I’d had the presence of mind to pack.

Then I stood in front of the mirror, turned on the front-facing camera, and captured the moment I realized: the life I knew was over.

After that, survival became a matter of small choices. What to eat. What to wear. Nothing felt important. Everything mattered.

I booked a flight to Los Angeles. Called my best friend and asked her to stay on the phone with me. She read the itinerary back—Berlin to Heathrow, Heathrow to LAX—twice, because I was shaking too hard to hear.

Smoothie. Soup. A painkiller.

By 10 a.m., my phone was blowing up:

One last dance! Just us this time!

It was tempting—if only out of muscle memory. Once, I might’ve gone to believe in the gesture. This time, I didn’t.

“I don’t think so,” I wrote back.

Two hours later, my friend was shitting in my hotel toilet while I stood at the mirror putting on makeup. Chanel water tint, Glossier Dusk, MAC’s Warm Teddy on bitten lips.

I unzipped my carry-on—packed with the few things I couldn’t leave behind—and agonized over what to wear. What signals I’m here to reclaim my sensuality—without trying too hard? Sexy, but not sexual?

I landed on a Fleur du Mal bodysuit that pushed up my breasts but still felt boyish. Indigo snakeskin velvet flares. Orange Akila glasses clashing with my blonde mullet. Thick Miista boots.

There was tension in the outfit—opposing forces pulling toward the same center. I didn’t feel beautiful. But I didn’t feel broken.

I stayed at Berghain for two hours, dancing with friends who surfaced through the strobe lights like tiny lifelines. I left when I’d had enough. I didn’t chase any highs.

Crossing the bridge I’d walked a hundred times before, the wind whipped the tears off my face.

—

The night before I left, Netta invited me and our friend George over for dinner. She’d been meaning to host for over a year, but life kept getting in the way.

When George arrived, he laughed: “You’ve finally invited us to your Airbnb.”

Netta made pasta. George poured wine. I sipped slowly, wincing at the antibiotics. But the flush felt warm. The wine was good.

To my surprise, I laughed.

For a second, it felt like everything was still intact. Like I wasn’t about to leave the life I’d spent two years building.

The joy felt like a betrayal.

After dinner, silence. The natural end of a night. If one of us stood up, it would mean goodbye.

So I did.

Netta and I went to her shop. She handed me my birth certificate, social security card, proof of German residency—evidence I had once belonged somewhere. I shoved them into my Psychic Wines tote.

“One last shop?” I asked.
“As you wish,” she said.

I had no room left. But I said yes anyway. We made small talk. I picked a light green army jacket. Two long skirts. Something I could carry forward.

Later, she drove me back to the hotel on her scooter. I told her I could get an Uber. She said she wanted to stay a little longer.

I held onto her as we rode through the city I used to call home. The cafés I used to sit in. The corner where I bought roasted chickens when I couldn’t bring myself to cook.

Everything familiar. Everything different.

Somewhere between the turns, I thought about something he once said:

There comes a time when the newness wears off. Berlin stops feeling foreign. It starts feeling like home.

I understood what he meant.

I arrived in Berlin on April 24, 2023, to start a new life. I left April 24, 2025, to end it.

—

The cosmic loop closed harder—and faster—than I was ready for.

In two weeks, I lost twelve pounds. I went from 124 to 112. I lifted two suitcases—142 pounds between them—onto a trolley and nearly blacked out.

“Are you alright, miss?” an attendant asked.
“Just a little tired,” I said.

TSA pulled me aside. Too many liquids. Then again, when they tore through everything I had left.

At border control, the agent asked why I’d been in Germany so long.

“I lived here,” I said.

He asked for my residency card. I froze. No idea where it was. My hands were shaking, throat tightening, tears spilling before I could stop them.

“There’s no need to cry,” he said gently. “Everything is alright.”

But how could I explain it? That leaving felt like being pushed out of my own life. That I was carrying the wreckage of something I loved. That I could barely carry myself.

Somehow, I found the card. He gave me a bracing smile and waved me through.

—

At Heathrow, they dismantled my bags again. It was just after Easter. Somewhere between the conveyor belts and my suspiciously large vibrator, I had an absurd thought:

Wait… am I actually Jesus?

I boarded the plane at the bluest hour of twilight. My body ached for the bed I was leaving. Frozen, I stared at my phone, waiting for a message that would never come. A text that said: Stop this madness. Come home.

But the plane moved. And then it lifted.

As we broke through the clouds, I cried out—a deep, wounded, primal sound.

Somewhere over the ocean, I changed into an all-white ribbed cotton set. Functional. Heavy. I wore it like a cocoon.

Before landing, I changed back into my snakeskin pants and pleated black top. The strap of my bag had left a raw mark across my shoulder. I put myself back together in the only way I knew how.

As we disembarked, the woman across the aisle caught my eye. I gave her a tentative smile.

She said softly, “I hope you feel better.”

I hadn’t realized she’d seen my tears.

“Thanks,” I said.