About a decade ago I was driving my daughter through the beaches near our home when I noticed her starting to nod off in the back seat.

I made a snap decision and pulled over.

It had been months since she’d fallen asleep on me, and I wanted to see if I could get one more. I lifted her out of her seat, carried her over to a tree, and sat down with her. She nuzzled in and was gone within a minute.

I spent the next hour staring at her. Completely present. Fully aware that this was almost certainly the last time she would fall asleep in my arms.

Ask anyone in my family and they will tell you my memory is horrible. I cannot remember birthdays, names, or events of real significance. And yet I can tell you exactly which tree I sat under that afternoon.

I was so grateful I pulled over.

You never know when the last time is

That is the thing about last times. They almost never announce themselves.

The last time you run. The last time you wear the heels. The last time you carry a sleeping child, or dance at a wedding, or put on a swimsuit without a single thought about it.

Very few of them arrive with a warning. Most of them just happen, and then quietly stop happening, and you only recognize them years later when you go looking.

Which brings me to your closet.

The waiting room at the back of the closet

Almost every closet I work in has one. A small section of things that are too good to wear.

The silk blouse still in its tissue. The jewellery that belonged to someone we loved. The coat, the boots, the dress that was expensive and is therefore being saved. Sometimes there’s a full garment bag, zipped, untouched since a wedding in 2011.

I ask the same question every time: what is this waiting for?

The honest answers, in roughly the order I hear them:

“Somewhere nicer to wear it.” “I don’t want to ruin it.” “It feels like too much for a Tuesday.” “I’m going to wear it when I lose a bit of weight.”

None of those are silly. I understand all of them. But look at what they have in common. Every one of them is a deal you’ve made with a future that hasn’t agreed to any of it.

Nothing is coming to rescue that blouse

The occasion you are saving for is not scheduled. It may never be scheduled. And in the meantime, styles shift, bodies change, fabrics yellow, and the thing you were protecting quietly becomes something you no longer want.

You didn’t protect it. You just didn’t get to enjoy it.

My brilliant and beautiful friend Mairlyn Smith says it best: use your good stuff.

Wear the fur coat you inherited. Put on the good jewellery. Don’t save your sparkles for nighttime. Use the nice plates on a Wednesday with pasta from a box.

Because here is the maths nobody wants to do: an expensive thing worn twice is expensive. An expensive thing worn two hundred times is one of the best purchases you ever made. Wearing your good stuff doesn’t waste it. Wearing it is the entire point of owning it.

But what if I actually ruin it?

Some of it will get ruined. That is true, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

You’ll catch a sleeve on something. You’ll spill. A hem will go. Most of it is fixable, some of it isn’t, and a small tax of real life is the fair price of a coat that got to be a coat instead of a museum piece.

There is also a middle ground, and I use it constantly with clients:

Bring the good piece down to earth. The silk blouse with jeans and a flat shoe. The statement necklace over a t-shirt. Formality is mostly context. Pair something precious with something ordinary and it becomes wearable on a random Thursday.

Stop dressing for the fanciest version of the event. Most of us over-imagine the room. You are almost never the most dressed up person there, and if you are, that is a perfectly nice thing to be.

Wear it in a low-stakes place first. Errands. Coffee. School pickup. Once you’ve worn it once, the spell breaks and it becomes a normal piece of clothing you happen to love.

If it truly cannot be worn, let it go. A piece you will never wear is not an heirloom, it is storage. Photograph it, keep it for the memory, or pass it to someone who will actually use it. Somebody gave you that thing hoping it would be enjoyed, not archived.

The inherited stuff is its own conversation

Jewellery from a grandmother. A parent’s coat. A ring from someone who is gone.

People tell me they cannot wear these things because they’d be devastated to lose them. I understand that fear completely, and I still think wearing them is closer to the point.

An object kept in a drawer holds a memory for one person. An object worn brings that person into the room. It gets asked about. It gets explained. It gets a story told about it to someone who never met them.

That is a much better job for a ring than sitting in a box.

Start this week

You don’t need a plan. Pick one thing you have been saving and wear it in the next seven days, somewhere completely unremarkable.

Notice what happens. Almost always it is this: nothing bad, and you feel wonderful.

Then do it again.

Your closet is not a savings account. There is no interest accruing. The good stuff is only good when it is on your body, in your life, on an ordinary day you will not remember for any other reason.

I have no idea which tree I would remember if I hadn’t pulled the car over that afternoon. I only know that I did, and that I still have it.

Use your good stuff.

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If your closet has a waiting room and you’d like help emptying it, that is one of my favourite things to do. Book a session and let’s get those pieces back into your life.