Making the Old New Again
The small acts of care that breathe new life into our favorite things.
There’s an old joke that garments are called clothing when they’re hanging but laundry once they’re in a heap on your floor. What really is the difference?
That question followed me as I stared at a growing pile of boots, shirts, and pants that needed repairs in my closet. My favorite workhorse items sat in limbo—neither wearable nor gone, just waiting to be salvaged or put out of their misery.
This time of year, there’s no ignoring the objects in your home. With the first snow and temperatures dropping to an unforgiving 3°C, you’re very inside. The walls close in a little and suddenly the cobwebs that have accumulated in the corners, the clutter that has stuffed your closets, and the tasks that have been yet again relegated to some vague “later” date seem impossible to ignore.
I tried to cure the symptoms: I lit candles, scrubbed surfaces, and opened windows. But it smelled like bergamot and optimism, and the pile still sat there.
I had to go right to the source.
There weren’t any grand transformations to be done, but there was a series of small actions that could bring these forgotten items back to life.
Armed with a tote bag and determination, I finally marched those neglected items to their various repair shops. I welcomed my friend’s unwanted items into my home. And I bought basic fix-it supplies to breathe new life into old rainboots at home.
It reminded me of a book I just read, Rebecca May Johnson’s Small Fires, which is ostensibly about cooking but really about everything. At its heart is her relationship with a tomato sauce recipe she’s made hundreds—maybe thousands—of times. The recipe is simple, but it evolves each time she makes it, shaped by who’s in the room, what’s in the fridge, and how she’s feeling that day. The recipe doesn’t change, but cooking it becomes a living practice—refreshed each time by care and attention.
Reading it made me realize that I didn’t need anything new to feel refreshed. I just needed to see the things I already had in a new way.
Here’s what I did:
Boots, Relined
I’ve had a pair of Hunter boots sitting in my closet, inert, for at least two years. They should be a staple for my many rainy days in Paris, but I almost never wear them because the insole had bunched up into an uncomfortable roll. Every time I saw them, I’d think, I should fix that, and then promptly forget. This weekend, I decided enough was enough and picked up Scholl’s gel inserts at Monoprix to pad the insides. It was a two-minute fix. I’m wearing them as I write this, on a heinously rainy day, and my feet are dry, warm, and smug.
Pants, Repaired
In October, I found the perfect pair of dark-wash vintage Levi’s in Madrid for $39. They fit like a glove—until the zipper teeth disintegrated in my office bathroom on their first wear. There was no fly left to close. I spent the rest of the day hiding my waist beneath my desk. Thankfully no one noticed (or had the heart to say anything).
This weekend, I brought them to the tailor, along with a summer shirt-dress with a tear under the arm and a pair of black sateen skinny pants that needed a new closure. I’ve loved these black pants, too, for at least ten years but they sat collecting dust for the past two years because the closure would mysteriously unzip on its own. Sure, puddle jeans are in, but try tucking those into boots without looking like you wandered out of a medieval fair. Now, they’re repaired, and we are so back.
Clothing, Swapped
The last time I went to a clothing swap was over a decade ago. Everything was spread out on a coworker’s apartment floor—workout clothes, scarves, dresses—to forage through and claim. I walked away with yoga pants and sports bras that served me well.
This time was more impromptu.
My friend Shawne, in the middle of a move, started holding up things she didn’t want to take with her: a green jumpsuit (claimed by Cheryl), a black button-up (snagged by Talya), and two striped button-ups—a baby-blue Cacharel and a red-and-white Ralph Lauren—that went straight into my bag.
They’ve been in constant rotation since. What felt like dead weight to Shawne feels like an unwitting gift with a whole new life to me.
Shoes, Resoled
Paris shifted seasons with all the grace of a slammed door, going from an inviting golden fall to icy gray winter overnight. Boot season arrived—except mine were in shambles. A zipper had come off the track of my favorite black pair; the heel pad was missing from my brown buckle boots, exposing raw plastic; even my suede oxfords looked like they’d been in a fistfight with the pavement.
I gathered them up and took them to the cordonnerie (cobbler) down the street. There’s something very satisfying about handing over worn-in shoes, knowing they’ll return sturdier, shinier, and ready for another season.
Recipe, Remixed
Every year for Thanksgiving now, I make a simple version of coconut milk-creamed greens with Swiss chard instead of collards or kale (because, France). It’s an easy staple—comforting, familiar, and just different enough to keep in rotation.
Over lunch recently, while running through my Thanksgiving menu with a friend, she mentioned a Zimbabwean recipe she loves: greens with peanut butter and chiles. Technique-wise, it’s very similar, but the heat from the chiles and richness from the peanut butter make it feel completely new, so I’ll be adding this to the menu tomorrow.
There’s something quietly transformative about repairs, swaps, and small fixes. These acts of care breathe life into the familiar, making it feel new again.
They redevelop trust that past versions of myself—and my friends—knew exactly what they were doing when we purchased these items and wore them into the ground. And they remind us to see our favorite objects not just for what they’ve been, but for what they can still become.
Love to hear about how you’re making the old new again—it’s what I’m aiming to do with my new project Membery.cc