Eugénie Trochu is a Who What Wear editor in residence known for her transformative work at Vogue France and her Substack newsletter, where she documents and shares new trends, her no-nonsense approach to fashion and style, plus other musings. She’s also working on her upcoming first book that explores fashion as a space of memory, projection, and reinvention.
Let’s start with a simple truth: we keep way too many clothes.
Because we love them. Because we don’t know what else to do. Because they remind us of someone, or something. Or simply because we’re convinced the asymmetrical cargo skirt might make a comeback any day now.
I’ve tried it all: the Vinted bag, the “take it if you want” friend, the New Year purge with a breakup playlist. But there’s always something left behind. Outfits I once loved, or imagined myself in someday. Dresses bought for dinners that never happened. Blazers that were supposed to scream “I’m in control” when I was on the verge of a meltdown. Boots that crippled my feet but shouted, “I’m moving forward.”
And of course, the proud mistakes. The pieces you give away, only to regret six months later, like a toxic ex who suddenly got their style back on Instagram.
Sometimes I wonder: what if my closet were my personal museum? A collection of emotional objects, failed attempts, sartorial fantasies. With, here and there, a true archive piece: the perfect dress, the foundational pair of jeans, the coat I loved a little too much.
Apparently, this already exists. A friend of a friend of a stylist swears by an app that lets you store your entire wardrobe off-site. You scroll on your iPad, pick what you want, and it’s delivered within the hour. A ghost closet, perfectly pressed. A concierge service for the indecisive. A dream and also proof that we are collectively incapable of letting anything go.
Because yes, we want space. But we also want to keep our projections. Our boho phases. Our “I only wear navy now” phases. Our streetwear attempts. We want it all there, just in case we become that person again. Or finally become her for real.
This is a look back at the clothes I gave away—and maybe shouldn’t have. Not because they fit me, but because they said something truer, sharper, more alive. And I wasn’t ready to hear it.
1. The Versace Dress I Should Never Have Returned
Some clothes you give away by accident. Others because you’re feeling magnanimous. And then there are the ones you return thinking you’re doing the noble thing. Spoiler: you regret it. Quickly. Deeply. Forever.
Mine was a simple black Versace dress, size 40. Elegant, understated — already a rarity for Versace. It belonged to my friend Caroline Charles, who worked for years alongside Gianni, then Donatella. Two dresses, same cut, same Italian ease. Not the crystal-studded, red-carpet versions, but the quiet black dresses people wore to dinner with a minister in 1996.
I borrowed them while I was pregnant, and wore one to the Dolce & Gabbana Alta Moda show in Puglia. (Yes, a Versace at Dolce — but Italy is family business, enemies included.) In photos, it was sublime. Not just the dress — me in the dress. Strong, steady, luminous in a body that was changing.
But afterward, I had a Madonna moment: “I’m evolving, I don’t need things”. I told myself: It’s a 40, I’m a 38, I’ll be myself again soon. Better to return them to the archives. Very noble. Very future-self projection.
Mistake. Because I never went back to a 38. The dresses went to another friend (whom I love, but still). And today, they’d be perfect on me. Not just beautiful, but the kind of timeless, flattering pieces I own so few of. It wasn’t just a bad edit. It was an emotional misjudgment. I wanted to be the girl who “doesn’t need it.” But in reality, I gave away a dress that spoke too clearly, too soon.
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2. The Chloé Years I Handed to My Neighbor (and Still Mourn)
(Image credit: Getty Images)
This was mid-career Vogue me: in my head, a Chloé girl. The Clare Waight Keller years: morning light shows, floaty dresses, lavallière blouses, light pink palettes. Soft but precise, feminine without shouting. I had everything: a naïve but perfect white pompom top with jeans, a rainbow-stripe track pant that fell just so over Michel Vivien sandals, crochet dresses I wore with Susanna boots. It was my “I’m feminine, but I don’t have to prove it” phase.
Then one day it felt too soft. Too gentle. Too out of step. Fashion shifted: rock, then streetwear. Silhouettes sharpened. Fabrics stiffened. My tiny Paris studio was running out of space. So I purged. I gave it all to my neighbor. A sweet girl in Birkenstocks who thanked me as if I’d handed her a Hermès bag. And now? I want it all back. Not only because those pieces are impossible to find, but because the wind has turned.
With Chemena Kamali at Chloé, Gaby Aghion’s original spirit is back. That soft, subtle, “retro-but-not-sentimental” Chloé woman feels more current than ever. And I have nothing left from that era. As if I threw away an entire silhouette, a version of myself that wasn’t outdated — just not in fashion’s tempo at the time.
That’s the trap: sometimes we give away clothes that are still fully us, simply because the trend has shifted.
Shop Current Chloé and Chloé-Inspired Favorites
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Susanna Ankle Boot
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3. The Bottega Boots I Should Have Kept (Even If They Killed My Feet)
These I didn’t give away — I sold them. Which is often just a polite way of saying: I got rid of them, with a tiny cash consolation. The Daniel Lee Bottega Veneta biker boots. Everywhere for three seasons. XXL, Lucky Luke meets dystopian model, with soles capable of crushing Parisian cobblestones. Heavy, sculptural, almost hostile. I adored them. But they destroyed my feet. Not blisters, actual torture. My heels threatening mutiny. The only time I could wear them was on a bike. Delicious irony: boots made for walking, unwearable unless I was sitting.
Eventually, I caved. Sold them to a girl in neon leggings who declared them “perfect.” I believed her. I felt lighter. Now I regret it. Not because I’d wear them again. But because I had them, and now I don’t. They captured a moment: Daniel Lee’s Bottega, the age of statement shoes, when I still allowed myself pain in the name of fashion. They were more than boots — they were sculptures. Too heavy, too much. But I wish I still had them, just to show my daughter one day: Look. I wore these. In 2020. On a bike. And I looked good.
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4. The Dior Hat I Lost (and Still Can’t Decide If I Miss It or Not)
I didn’t give this one away, or sell it, or box it up. I lost it. A Dior Torero hat, gifted during a Maria Grazia Chiuri show in Spain. Dramatic, chic, a well-placed coup de tête. There’s a photo of me with Sophie Fontanel wearing it, grinning with joy and a touch of irony. And honestly, it suited me. But here’s the truth: I’m not a hat person. I love them on others. On me, they’re always a bit too much.
Hats demand space. They blow off in the mistral, collapse in suitcases, take up too much room. And eventually, they vanish. I don’t know where. A car? Someone’s apartment? A forgotten closet? I never saw it again. And I feel strangely torn. I might never have worn it again, but I wish I still had it. To perch on a shelf, hang like a private joke, keep as a reminder of a fleeting audacity. And I still wonder: is a hat today still fashion, or is it inherently a little dated, a little performative? I don’t know. But I wish I could hesitate while looking at it, instead of only remembering it.
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5. The Acne Perfecto I Didn’t Steal (and Still Haven’t Found)
This loss is different: I didn’t give it away, sell it, or lose it. It was lent to me. And then taken back. An Acne Studios leather perfecto, perfectly aged. The kind of jacket you put on once and never want to take off. Sharp cut, perfect patina, slightly oversized but structured. It electrified everything: a floaty dress, black jeans, wide trousers. It was instant authority. Then, logically, it was requested back. Press loan protocol. I smiled, said “of course,” and returned it. Since then, I’ve hunted for it. But it was a prototype. Never commercialized. A one-off that went back into some Acne archive in northern Europe.
And I still think: I should have kept it. Quietly stolen it. Pretended I lost it. Because no other perfecto has ever felt the same. It’s ridiculous, maybe. But sometimes it’s the clothes we never truly owned that haunt us the most.
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6. The Femme Fatale Dress I Gave Away (and the Boots I Still Long For)
Some looks you wear once in your life, and they stay like a dream — blurry but unforgettable. This one was my femme fatale moment. A hyper-sexy Marcia dress, wide open, worn with a jeweled thong meant to be seen. A piece designed for admiration, not errands. But when I wore it, I felt like someone else: freer, bolder, more alive.
I gave it away. Because it felt unwearable. Too naked, too honest, too much. I told myself it was only for a 25-year-old bombshell in a size 2.
Now I regret it. Not because I’d wear it today. But because it was tiny, took no space, and represented a version of me I might have wanted to revisit someday. A private play I canceled too soon.
With that dress came biker boots from Dolce & Gabbana, lent for the look. Sublime, almost armor. They had to be returned, of course. But I still miss them. Tried to buy them back — impossible. Collector status. A fortune.
That look, I only wore once. But I remember it as perfect alignment: silhouette, setting, intention. Sometimes the outfits we only wear once are the ones we should keep forever.
Shop the Dress and Similar Boots
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In Conclusion
We think decluttering is about making space. It is. But sometimes we let go too quickly of versions of ourselves we haven’t fully understood. We give away a dress thinking “I’ll never wear it again” when the real question is: Am I no longer that woman, or do I just not dare to be her? These aren’t life-shattering regrets. They’re mini stylistic funerals. Small losses that linger like a silent notification: you rushed it, didn’t you?
Now I try to keep differently. Not everything. Not anything. But the pieces that truly mean something. The ones I don’t need to wear every day but I’m glad to know are there. The ones that stand on their own in a corner of the closet — as witness, talisman, armor, private joke.
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