The Quiet Work of Healing: What Vintage Has Taught Me About Letting Go of Perfection

 I didn’t expect this little shop to be part of my healing.

I started Lee & Lillian’s because I loved the clothes — the silhouettes, the textures, the sense of memory stitched into every seam. I loved the way a vintage dress could carry a whole story in its hemline. What I didn’t realize was how much I needed to be carried, too.

I come from a world that expected perfection. Where love was conditional, mistakes were dangerous, and the price of belonging was constant self-surveillance. Like many who grew up in high-control environments — especially those shaped by fundamentalism or cult dynamics — I internalized the belief that even small missteps could cost everything. A missed detail. A wrong word. A tiny flaw.

So when I began selling vintage, I thought I was simply offering beautiful clothes. But slowly, I began to notice the old narratives creeping in.

That small voice that panicked when I found a hidden stain after photographing a piece.

The shame that surged when I mislabeled a sleeve or missed a measurement.

The fear — visceral, heavy — that a return request meant I had failed.

I realized I wasn’t just running a shop. I was reenacting, and now — finally — revising old scripts.

Because vintage is inherently imperfect. That’s the point.

A 40-year-old dress is going to carry signs of life. A bit of fading. A softened seam. Sometimes even a flaw I didn’t catch, despite all my care. And yet, I’m learning that a garment doesn’t need to be perfect to be beautiful — and neither do I.

Running this shop has taught me how to speak to others with gentleness — and, more importantly, to myself.

It has shown me how to frame imperfection not as failure, but as part of the story.

It’s helped me practice boundaries and soften control — two things that once felt dangerous.

I’ve learned to trust my eye, even when I get something wrong.

To offer care without sacrificing myself in the process.

To believe that I am still worthy of building something meaningful, even when I stumble.

And maybe that’s what this work has always been about:

Taking something that was once discarded, and offering it a second chance.

Not because it’s flawless — but because it still holds beauty. Still holds worth.

Just like me.