Here’s What Gaining Weight Taught Me About the Power of Clothing

Like most human women I know, my weight goes up and down. But the last time I gained a considerable amount—60 pounds, to be specific—it stayed put. And one thing became very clear, very fast: None of my clothes fit. That seems like the kind of thing that wouldn’t come out of nowhere, but I realized it abruptly one morning when I found myself half-naked in front of my closet, swearing under my breath. That one annoying day turned into months of frustration complete with full-blown fits. (Picture me crying tears of defeat or chucking too-small clothes at the laundry bin.) Though my self-esteem wasn’t unraveled over growing a few sizes, I was very irritated with the practical issues of having a bigger body.

At the time I was a fashion editor at Glamour and needed to look polished at the office. But as my size-12 dress pants got hard to zip up, my button-down shirts started clinging to my belly, and my blazers got too tight to guarantee a full range of motion in the arms, I had to pivot exclusively to pieces from plus-size brands.

That was tough for a few reasons. First, my style is classic-menswear inspired (think tailoring in neutral colors), and plus-size fashion is generally super feminine, semitrendy, and brightly colored. Second, the moment I had to up my size, I had to sacrifice quality: All of a sudden everything in my closet was made from rayon or polyester that either held onto body odor or pilled all over.

To be honest, there was no easy fix. For a few years I wore crappy stuff that made me feel unsure of myself. After all, it’s hard to be confident when, say, your pants rip on the way to an interview (true story).

Eventually I developed a few habits that eased the pain of getting dressed. First, I found a handful of flowy navy dresses from Eloquii that I could wear at a 14, 16, and 18. But having my thighs rub together drove me nuts. (I always had a pair of Knix’s anti-chafing shorts on hand for that reason.) I thrifted men’s designer blazers—my favorite is an Armani one I found in Beacon’s Closet—because they served as a way for me to wear something that (a) was high quality and (b) wasn’t too tight. (The trick to making them fit perfectly? I had a tailor take them in through the arms and back.) I also used rental services like Rent the Runway Unlimited and Gwynnie Bee, which allowed me to have a handful of pieces in my new size each month without spending a fortune.

I meant it when I said that my self-esteem didn’t suffer from gaining weight. I actually did appreciate my body at every size. But it had taken a lot of work to get to that headspace. I wrote years’ worth of size-inclusive content at Glamour. I read everything from Hungry (2009) to Shrill (2017). I cleansed my Instagram of all things fat-shaming. I talked body positivity on Good Morning America and The Today Show. I took courses at the National Eating Disorders Association. I spoke to thousands of women who showed me that size does not equal value. By the time I’d put in my 10,000 hours, I genuinely did not dislike my body. And yet a bad outfit still had the power to make me forget that, if only for a second.

Why did clothes still hold so much power?

My experience as a fashion journalist helped me understand why. Fashion is a lens through which our culture measures value. If you get your hands on the Balenciaga sweater or Gucci dress of the moment, you’re instantly perceived as worth more than the person next to you. And when those pieces are exclusive to women size 0 to 12, it tells those of us who wear a size 14 and up that we aren’t valuable.

After nearly 10 years working in fashion—first as a plus-size model, then as an editor—and nearly 20 years as a consumer, it’s possible that idea may never leave my head. But now I’m at least able to override it (i.e., after my laundry-bin fit, I still put something on my body and got my ass to work).

Beyond what our exclusion tells us subliminally, we also face a very real ripple effect. When women above a certain size don’t have access to sharp, well-made clothes, we face a measurable disadvantage. When we have to wear something shitty—surprise!—we feel shitty. I was sick of starting my day with that feeling, because it legitimately affected my work: I’d be in a bad mood during a morning meeting, or I’d be preoccupied while editing a story, or I’d skip a nighttime industry event because I didn’t think I looked like I belonged there.

Two in three American women wear above a size 12, but we account for only 17 percent of spending in women’s retail. And let me tell you, it’s not because we don’t like to shop! I became so obsessed with the idea that millions of women like me were facing a similar disadvantage at work for being plus-size that I flat-out quit my job to help them.

A year later, I’m launching my own fashion brand called Henning. I’m proud to say that our first collection is made up of high-quality, fashion-forward workwear pieces in sizes 12 and up. (Stay tuned for its release this fall.) The pieces are inspired by the ones I needed during my time at Glamour, and our goal is to solve the style and fit issues plus-size women have to deal with.

So far, the best part of working on the business is talking to women who feel the way I did when getting dressed for work. We’ve had them tell us things like, “I feel like I’m playing dress-up in my grandma’s closet,” and, “I’m tired of dressing like I’m going to a funeral when I’m really going to represent my company in a business meeting.” It’s comments like these that let me see I wasn’t the only one swearing at my closet, fidgeting in meetings, and missing opportunities. They reinforce my belief that the power of good clothes is a power we all need on our side—no matter what size we wear.

Lauren Chan is the founder and CEO of Henning. Formerly, she was a plus-size model and fashion editor. Follow her at @lcchan, and Henning at @henning.