The White Shirt Moment

April 17, 2025

Writer: Bennett Ismert

Editor: Victoria Pescod

I used to avoid wearing white, as if it came with a warning label. I stuck to dark colors — black, navy, deep red. Not because I didn’t love how white looked, but because it demanded something I didn’t know how to give: control. I’m clumsy. I spill. Always have. When it happened on colored clothes, I didn’t overthink it — a quick wash and dry usually fixed everything. But something about white made the thought of spilling feel irreversible, like a single drop could ruin the whole thing. White jeans, white silk, white sheets — all of it felt like a challenge. Keep them perfect, I reminded myself. Keep them untouched, unstained.

And so I didn’t wear white. Not really. Not when it mattered. Not beyond the old sleep shirt or that one pair of shorts I didn’t care much about.

Until one afternoon a few years ago, I had an event to go to and pulled on a white button-down my mom had given me. It was pristine — so stark white it felt like it came with rules. I paired it with blue jeans and my Doc Marten boots. I wasn’t trying to make a statement, and I definitely didn’t trust myself to keep it spotless. I just didn’t feel like thinking too hard. It was time to enjoy my pieces; to embrace the color for what it was and start living in them, not just wearing them. 

I wore it to the event and didn’t spill anything. I didn’t panic and I didn’t overanalyze. At the end of the night, I looked down and saw the shirt still perfectly white. I felt oddly relieved, like I’d passed some kind of test I hadn’t meant to take.

And then — I spilled.

Not dramatically. Not during the event. It happened later, when I got home and was taking off my makeup. A smudge of oil from the remover caught the middle of the shirt. Normally, that would’ve sent me into a spiral. I’d panic, douse it in stain remover, scramble to throw it in the wash like the fabric’s future depended on it. But this time, I looked down and felt... fine. I shrugged. It wasn’t a disaster. It wasn’t even noticeable unless I pointed it out. More importantly, I didn’t care. I had settled into the feeling of relief after making it through the night unscathed, but the stain reminded me that perfection was never the point.

That one little moment — the kind of thing that used to undo me — didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like life happening. Like proof that I was living in my clothes, not guarding them in a glass case.

Since then, I’ve started wearing white more often. White linen pants. White hoodies. I even wore a white maxi dress for my graduation photos — something I never would’ve dared a few years ago. It’s not that I’ve become careless. It’s that I’ve become softer. I’ve stopped treating my clothes — and by extension, myself — like they have to be flawless to be valuable.

Wearing white used to feel like a responsibility. Now it feels like a choice.