Labels, Shapewear, and Grown-Woman Wins: My Retail Therapy Revelation

By Dr. Tomi Mitchell #LaughterIsMedicine

Let me take you on a journey—a story about one woman, a closing store, a fruit smoothie with frozen fruit and coconut water, and a moment of truth in the fitting room.

Recently, I went back to one of my stores—yes, mine. It was the kind of place that reliably delivered workwear staples, easy wins for last-minute brunches, and spontaneous retail joy that pairs beautifully with a latte and an unexpected, child-free afternoon. You know the vibe—clean aisles, curated playlists, mirrors that somehow soften reality just enough.

But this time was different.

The store was closing. Filed for bankruptcy. Officially out of business. Finito. The signs were taped to the windows with a sad kind of urgency. Discounts screamed in fluorescent colours. Once styled like they were headed to a networking brunch, the mannequins now looked... tired. And when I heard the news, I did what any rational, fully scheduled woman with a mostly healed relationship with consumerism would do:

I went back.

One more lap. One more look. A farewell visit to the shelves that once held wrap dresses that made me feel like Michelle Obama on casual Friday and blazers sharp enough to cut glass—or at least command a Zoom room.

A Little Retail Therapy (With Self-Control, Thank You Very Much)

Let’s be clear: I didn’t storm in like I was auditioning for a reality show. There was no manic grabbing or frenzied sifting. This was not that kind of mission.

I went in with intention. Curiosity. A whisper of nostalgia. And yes, maybe the slightest flicker of hope that I’d find a hidden gem—one last statement piece to add to my collection of “grown-woman wins.”

As I wandered through the aisles, I felt a strange peace—a calm kind of joy. This wasn’t about filling a void or chasing status. It was a subtle reminder of how far I’ve come—financially, emotionally, and personally.

Then came the fitting room—the real confessional booth.

I picked out a few pieces. They were beautiful, at least on the hanger. Well-made. From designers that would’ve once had me mentally justifying the price tag before I even zipped them up. But as I slipped them on, something unexpected happened.

They didn’t feel like me.

They weren’t bad. They weren’t unflattering. They just weren’t a yes. And these days, I don’t negotiate with “maybe.”

The Label Awakening: When You Know Too Much

Here’s the thing: once you start paying attention—paying attention—to how things are made, it changes you.

I’ve learned that many designer clothing items are made in the same factories as so-called “budget” brands, thanks to documentaries, credible investigative journalism, and disturbing Reddit threads. Same stitching. Same hands. Same fabric blends.

But slap a label on it, crank up the price, and suddenly, it becomes aspirational, exclusive, and desirable. That’s when I remembered my shopping rule: The George Test.

If this item said “George” (yes, the Walmart brand), would I still want it? Would I still be excited about it? Or would I pass it by without a second thought?

It’s my litmus test to see if I’m buying something for me—for how it feels, fits, and aligns with my energy—or if I’m hypnotized by branding. I tried it on three pieces that day. All three failed the George Test.

They weren’t hideous. They were just... meh. And at this stage in my life, “meh” has zero real estate in my closet—or my calendar.

Confessions of a Reformed Impulse Shopper

I wasn’t always like this. Let’s keep it real.

There was a time when I shopped like I was trying to outrun a feeling. Emotional spending was a coping mechanism disguised as self-care, where clearance stickers felt like little adrenaline hits and shipping confirmations were my version of a serotonin boost.

Back then, the high didn’t last. And the credit card statements always brought the crash.

But life—and healing—have a way of reshaping your habits. I’m more reflective now, more intentional. I’m no longer swiping from a place of insecurity, stress, or scarcity.

And that shift? That’s a glow-up money can’t buy.

What Even Is Luxury?

We’ve been sold the myth that luxury equals quality. That a price tag determines worth. That exclusivity is inherently valuable. But the more you examine it, the more fragile that narrative becomes.

In many cases, luxury is just marketing dressed up in Italian leather: clever branding, strategic scarcity, and pretty packaging.

Sure, some brands offer exceptional craftsmanship. But many just provide the illusion of it. Behind the scenes, it’s often a production line like any other—whether in Florence or the outskirts of Guangzhou.

So what are we paying for? Craftsmanship? Or ego? Identity? Social clout?

And what does it say about us when the $2,000 purse we carried in 2018 now has a lookalike on Temu for $49.99, with free shipping?

These Days, I’m Choosing Me

The older I get, the less impressed I am by labels.

I care how I feel, not how I look to others. I want to walk into a room and feel grounded, radiant, and playful. I want clothes that match my rhythm, not someone else’s brand story.

I don’t need a logo to validate me. That’s freedom.

What I Did End Up Buying (Plot Twist!)

I bought shapewear. Yes, practical, humble, deeply unglamorous shapewear—the kind that doesn’t scream luxury but quietly holds everything in place while you power through a full day like the queen you are.

And because the store had (predictably) run out of bags, I tossed it right into my gorgeous designer tote. The irony? Not lost on me.

Poetic, even.

Coconut Water & Seatbelt Victories

I passed the food court on my way out. You know the one. The cinnamon buns were practically singing gospel. But I kept walking.

Because I had frozen fruit and coconut water waiting for me at home. That’s been my current indulgence—blending smoothies that make me feel energized and cared for, not sluggish and regretful.

I tossed the shapewear into my designer tote (again, poetic) and chuckled.

“Did I just get Temu’d on this bag too?”

Probably.

But I fastened my seatbelt, smiled at my reflection in the rearview mirror, and returned to my day off. In true working-woman fashion, this meant catching up on admin, touching up forms, and finishing a few patient notes.

Final Thoughts from the Fitting Room

That wasn’t just a shopping trip. It was a checkpoint.

A little life audit in retail form. A reminder that I’ve grown. My relationship with stuff—and more importantly, with myself—has matured.

I left with no unnecessary extras, no just-in-case purchases, no guilt or buyer’s remorse—just shapewear, self-awareness, and the quiet, confident joy that comes from knowing who you are.

Because of absolute luxury?

It’s not stitched into a label.

It’s walking away from a full cart, standing tall in your truth, and feeling fabulous anyway.