The Mara Hoffman dress was the moment I knew: I would never again use clothing to hide. I was out and proud and never going back.

It was a crisp white cotton-linen mini with balloon sleeves and a tie back that dipped way, way down. I couldn’t not have it. Once I had it, I couldn’t not show it off. “Would you take a picture?” I asked my photographer friend, Melissa, and she obliged. Then I posted it to Instagram.

Photo: Melissa Sinclair

I had been inching there—exposure, freedom, revelation—over a course of years, experimenting with two-piece bathing suits, clingy dresses, and leggings. But this was momentous. The pendulum had swung before, but this was more like a dam breaking. It was 2019, and I was forty-two.

I was born with Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome, a congenital vascular disorder that means I have a massive fatty deformity on my back and torso, along with a giant port-wine stain, legs that are different sizes, tilted posture, and lots of other trickle-down effects. I have always loved clothes, but they haven’t always loved me back.

When I was a kid, I “fought” with my underpants. My mom still chuckles about it. “Every morning,” she’ll reminisce with a giggle, “fighting with your underpants.” I remember it, too. I’d get my undies on, then thrash around, trying to make them comfortable, knowing I couldn’t. Most underwear is made for people with thighs and bum cheeks that match, which means mine never fit quite right; so I fought with my underpants. Another kind of kid might have just forsaken undies, altogether. But my mother passed down her love of fashion to me, and thank god for that. She made sure I was always impeccably dressed (I was wearing Norma Kamali sets in elementary school) because clothes brought my mom joy. Though my body meant I had to search a little harder for that joy, I always had it in me to find.