I used to wear a suit every day for over twenty-five years.
Not occasionally.
Every day.
Administrator suit.
Meeting suit.
Budget presentation suit.
“Please welcome our keynote speaker” suit.
Before that, teacher ties. Because apparently in the early 2000s we believed children learned fractions better if the adult explaining them looked mildly uncomfortable around the neck.
Think about how many days that is.
Thousands.
Thousands of mornings standing in front of mirrors adjusting ties like I was preparing for battle at a bank that also discussed curriculum alignment.
I owned enough belts and pocket squares to look like I had a side business selling cologne at Macy’s.
At one point I joked that even my pajamas were business casual.
And honestly?
They practically were.
Then one day… I stopped wearing them.
Life changed.
Not gradually either.
More like one of those movie scenes where a guy carries a cardboard box out of a building while trying to pretend his entire nervous system isn’t on fire.
And for the last year and a half, every time I put on a suit it usually meant something heavy was waiting on the other side of the drive.
So eventually the suits just stayed in the closet.
Like retired versions of myself hanging quietly in the dark.
A suit stopped feeling like ambition.
It started feeling like consequences with buttons.
But today was different.
Today I put on a suit for something hopeful.
An actual interview.
A real one.
Not one of those fake interviews where you can tell within four minutes they already picked someone named Connor whose uncle plays golf with the regional director.
A job I genuinely need.
For my family.
For my mind.
For the small remaining piece of my self-worth currently being held together with prayer, caffeine, and motivational podcasts hosted by men named Trent.
I stood there this morning putting on an old suit that somehow still fit—which honestly felt like its own miracle—and it was surreal.
Like meeting a former version of yourself in the hallway.
The man who used to wear this suit believed his life was stable.
He thought burnout was the biggest threat.
Not collapse.
Not rebuilding your identity from scratch while refreshing Indeed like it’s a slot machine.
I remember complaining constantly about wearing suits.
Too many meetings.
Too many events.
Too many hours.
And now?
I would gladly steam twelve blazers a day if it meant I could consistently provide for my family again.
Funny how quickly the things we resent become the things we pray to get back.
The interview itself went great.
Like… suspiciously great.
The kind where you leave already mentally decorating your office.
I answered well.
We connected.
People smiled.
At one point I was absolutely certain...
“Oh my God. I think I got this.”
Then came the phrase.
“The next step is a comprehensive background check.”
Comprehensive.
Such an aggressively confident word.
Not “quick.”
Not “standard.”
Comprehensive.
Like they’re about to excavate your entire existence with a flashlight and a legal pad.
And just like that, I felt it.
That small familiar ache.
The reminder that when your life went public, part of you always wonders if the worst thing you’ve done will become the only thing people see.
I walked into that building insecure.
I walked out hopeful.
Then halfway to my car I thought...
“They’re never hiring me.”
That voice still shows up sometimes.
Not loudly anymore.
Just enough to make you hesitate before believing something good might happen.
But today?
I let it ride in the passenger seat without grabbing the wheel.
Because maybe healing isn’t becoming fearless.
Maybe it’s applying anyway.
Showing up anyway.
Putting the suit on anyway.
When I got home, I took off the suit slowly.
The same suit I once wore giving speeches.
Shaking hands with politicians.
Standing in front of crowds pretending I had life figured out because my tie matched my pocket square.
But today I wore it for something far more important than status.
Hope.
Real hope.
Not ego.
Not applause.
Just the hope that maybe a man can lose almost everything…and still slowly become someone worth trusting again.
They say the suit makes the man.
I don’t think that’s true anymore.
But I do think sometimes putting one on reminds you that underneath all the wreckage…the man is still in there somewhere.
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