I couldn’t breathe, at least that’s what it felt like. Was I having a heart attack? I wasn’t even 30 yet, but there was something in me that just shut down. It was as if my brain was no longer in communication with my body. It was an unexpected and scary malfunction to experience in public on a crowded metro bus in Washington, D.C.. I had just left New York, feeling professionally and emotionally defeated, breaking off a long strand of toxic relationships, and what I viewed to be failed hopes and dreams. I made the decision to move to D.C. for graduate school, lived with my sister, and searched for ways to regroup. I was officially starting over and had so much to learn and unpack. The journey ahead was unexpected. 

While clutching my chest, I saw my sister’s house in the distance and asked the bus driver to keep talking to me as a distraction from the overwhelming discomfort and panic. He asked if he should call the ambulance, I begged him not to and reassured him that I could make it home. I walked in the house, sat down, and tried to gather myself. I took several deep breaths and laid down, hoping to calm myself from what had been a terrifying event. It worked.

The next day I reached out to my therapist to tell her what happened the night before. We had spent a few weeks working through my lifelong battle with perfectionism and disappointments related to my fashion career in New York. Could that be it? I used to ask God, “Why would you give me this passion and desire to work in this industry at such an early age, only for me to get there and have it all fall apart?” I was heartbroken. I felt like a failure. The therapist suggested that I should see a psychiatrist to delve into my episode on the bus to figure out what had transpired. 

I had never seen a psychiatrist in my life and just the mere thought of seeing one left me feeling embarrassed and conflicted. Was there something seriously wrong with me? Isn’t the psychiatrist reserved for seriously “crazy people?” The doctor was a woman, polished, and poised. She was chic…and of course, I would notice. She began to ask a series of questions, many of which mirrored my experience in therapy. I brought up my history of being sexually violated at the age of four, but had never thought it had any effect because it happened so long ago. I apprised the doctor of my long history of never feeling good enough, upholding unrealistic expectations of perfectionism, and not feeling worthy of self-love or love from others. Of course there were also complex experiences associated with race, gender, and class in America. Behind my vibrant and often infectious personality that many assumed was naturally positive, I was a hurting and often depressed person, who at certain points, questioned their own purpose and will to live. 

The doctor reviewed her notes, nodding, reassuring herself that she knew exactly what was going on. In slightly broken English, she looked up and replied, “You had an anxiety attack. You  must find something fashion related to do in your life. You don’t need to necessarily work in the industry, just find a hobby…something. Fashion is what helped you see beauty in the world. Now that you’re not doing it, you’ve lost one of your primary coping mechanisms.” In that moment I felt an overwhelming sense of calm…it finally all made sense. She went on to explain that some, especially in the early stages of development, turn to various forms of coping to help overcome extreme forms of  pain and darkness for emotional survival. In my case, fashion was my outlet, my art therapy. I would sketch designs for hours as a child and would constantly watch marathons of Lauren Ezersky hosting “Behind the Velvet Ropes” on the Style Network. I would read and thoroughly study any kind of fashion magazine, book, or pamphlet I could get my hands on to learn as much as I possibly could. I was obsessed with the work of John Galliano and Jean Paul Gaultier. It gave me life to delve into this glamorous world of artistry, design, history, and culture that transcended beyond the walls of my hometown in Colton, California. 

Now that I had some form of clarity, I launched a blog called The Chic Incumbent, where I covered fashion in politics, using fashion as a way to educate myself and others on the women who run Washington. I also included street style and event coverage. I would channel my inner Bill Cunningham and approach random strangers on the street to talk about who and what they were wearing. I had a blast and the blog was really taking off. I attended fashion week shows and events where I was able to reconnect with my fashion family. I could feel my joie de vivre again through my work. Within a three year span I got married (just a private nikah with my husband), gave birth to my first son, moved to the suburbs, and switched jobs. The 2016 election results added fuel to the fire and I no longer had the emotional capacity to continue the blog and shut it down to think about my life and all of the changes that occurred. 

I knew that I was at a higher risk of experiencing postpartum depression because of my mental health history, but I didn’t think it could consume my life. After having my second child a year and a half later, I looked in the mirror and could not recognize myself. Becoming a mother changes you both mentally and physically and the woman in the mirror was someone that I couldn’t believe I morphed into. It was an outward reflection of how I felt inside: sad, resentful, angry, fearful, and operating in survival mode. I had bottled in several years of unresolved emotions, all of which were teetering on a foundation of hurt and shame. The lack of sleep with young children had also taken its toll. There were times that I would be so exhausted that my face would feel numb and I would get the boys ready, do my drop-offs, and go into work as if nothing happened…with a smile. A few months in, my smile slowly crumbled and the facade began to melt away. I struggled more at work, in my marriage, with my family, and in my friendships. Something had to change. 

Over the course of my life, no matter how many times I wanted to give up, God, through someone or something, would give me the strength, a sign, or the resources to pivot and move forward. My first step was to address my relationship with Him. I realized that His love was not conditional. He wasn’t angry with me, He never abandoned me, but was simply helping me along in my purpose. Previously, I had subconsciously determined that I could only be loved by what I did, or by what I produced, the impossible “rules” I followed, or how I made others feel. God wasn’t punishing me because of what I perceived to be mistakes or imperfections. He loves all of us unconditionally. I had not truly grasped and internalized the concept that you could be loved completely for simply being who you are and that in itself is enough…I realize that now.

Within the past two years, I chiseled away at the 75 pounds that I had gained from pregnancy and mixed my routine with Every Mother and Anowa Adjah’s program to combat my diastasis recti. A friend who I hadn’t spoken to in years reached out and suggested that we meet for morning workouts. We would work out almost everyday together, talk, and share stories. I joined a women’s group, saw my therapist weekly, began doing EMDR to reroute past traumas along with Lacy Phillip’s childhood and shadow meditation work to unblock what was subconsciously holding back my self-worth. I took more time outdoors, jogging along the trail nearby, being present and in the moment with my children, but making sure to carve out time for myself. Slowly the weight, both figuratively and literally, began to slip away. The heaviness of the shadow that had followed me throughout my life began to slowly dissipate and I was able to finally uncover the remnants of my authentic self. 

Fashion has and will always be a significant piece of my authentic code. It has been a God-given inspiration, a beautiful lens of artistry, not merely a surface frivolity that many assign its perceived traits. It’s wearable art that tells a story. One that can accurately reflect how someone feels…or doesn’t about themselves. Through fashion, we subliminally communicate where we are as a society through various silhouettes and color, some of it is even cyclical, often running parallel to economic cycles. It’s an artform that I love, and one in which I feel the most like myself.

My father used to always ask me, who are you? If I was sad or facing a challenge, he would ask this at nauseum. I used to roll my eyes and mumble “Kirsten Nichele Holtz.” He would reply, “That’s right! And don’t you forget it.” He would say it so much that my friends in middle and high school would repeat his phrase in their own challenging times. As an adult, I see how something so simple, yet so significant can empower and impact your life. I also see how it can transform it. 

It’s now time for me to properly introduce myself: I am Kirsten Nichele Holtz Naim, a child of God, mother, daughter, survivor, overcomer, and fashion lover! I am loved. This is more than a fashion moment, this is my life. This is ME. I am so thankful that you are joining me on this journey. Stay tuned for new fashion content, life lessons, and A Fashion Moment, the podcast, launching January 6th. 

Xoxo ,
Kirsten