About a year before my debut poetry collection, Continental Drift, was released, I asked a writer friend what I should wear to readings. I had two small literary festivals coming up, and nothing cool to wear.

She said, “Some poets like to ‘peacock’ a bit for readings and conferences.”

I nodded, recalling poets I had seen read in funky, elegantly one-of-a-kind outfits that left no doubt as to who was The Poet in the room. They combined fuchsia with yellow, or waves with dots, then tamed visual cacophony with the perfect shoes or jewelry. Not meant to be or look effortless, those outfits were crafted. They were poems.

I do not make such poems, though I admire them.

I have worn mostly the same earrings since 2010, when I received diamond studs as a traditional Vietnamese bridal gift. Friends who kindly overestimate my sartorial abilities sometimes gift me earrings. When I stumble across a pair (usually while searching for something else), I think, “Beautiful! I should wear these.”

But taking off and putting on earrings requires fine motor skills and is boring, which means it is hard. Plus, to change earrings regularly, I would have to not only own multiple pair, but also keep them where I can find them and make frequent choices based on specific outfits. Again, hard.

It’s the same with necklaces, bracelets, belts, and watches. Imagine wearing all these in one outfit. Herculean!

While we’re at it, do you know what else is hard?

Pants, shirts, skirts, socks, and shoes. If you wear pants, you ought to have a shirt. If you wear socks, there should be shoes, and sometimes vice versa, but it depends on the shoe. So much coordination. Choices and shoulds. Don’t get me started on ironing or dry cleaning.

And yet: peacocks! Glorious colors, textures, and shapes. If only I could!

I’m not opposed to fashion. I just can’t seem to do all the steps.

*

For many years, as a grown adult, I followed ADHD tips and tricks gleaned from the internet. I did this because they worked, which was strange, since I did not have ADHD. You see, I have multiple degrees, am a college professor, and behaved perfectly in school when I was little.

Then, a close relative was diagnosed, and we learned that ADHD is largely genetic. I guess the genes skipped me, though, since I did not have ADHD.

Look at my lists! Look at all the alarms I set! I’m always on time. Early, even.

When I was finally diagnosed with ADHD in my 40s, I found myself part of a growing number of fed-up women whose sensory and executive functioning struggles have been ignored for decades. In short order, I slurped up dozens of books, studies, and podcasts. I learned how neurodivergent women and genderqueer people have been failed by clinical research, diagnosis, and treatment.

It was like opening a door to discover my house had entire wings I had never known about. Some were so neglected, they were on the verge of collapse.

*

To the first festival reading, I wore a sleeveless knit jumpsuit I had bought at Old Navy. I chose it mainly because the weather was hot, and I needed to dress up more than my summer uniform of shorts and tank top. The jumpsuit was maroon, as is much of my closet, for simplicity’s sake.

The jumpsuit was blessedly comfortable — elastic waist, no buttons or zippers — but its fit unflattering. “I must do better,” I thought, after seeing photos of myself.

For the next reading, I went shopping. I tried on numerous combinations of ill-fitting items, most of which clawed at my skin. I cursed the town I lived in, where shopping choices are limited.

To be fair to my town, most clothes are uncomfortable. They have seams and tags. They make your limbs go into them. They’re cut for someone taller. Awful, really.

Nothing looked right, felt bearable, and matched the right kind of other thing. Two shirts do not an outfit make! I had been taught some fashion rules, but was mystified by what I saw. A billowy bottom with a billowy top? Wide leg jeans are back, but cropped?

Exhausted and discouraged, I spotted a flowy black jumpsuit on the clearance rack at Ross. When I held it up to me, it was approximately the right height. “At least it’ll be easy,” I thought. “And I can adjust the fit with this waist tie thingy.” It was twenty bucks. Sold!

It fit perfectly. Soft and thin, a bit stretchy, and machine washable. It looked as “nice” as a dress, but hipper, because it wasn’t a dress. I loved its versatility. Underdressed? Not me; look at my pretty puffed sleeves. Overdressed? Nope; I’m wearing pants! I had my reading outfit.

One step, and dressing was complete. I put on my makeup. Then, I surprised myself by rummaging up a pair of dangly earrings a friend had bought me, switching out my studs.

“How unlike me,” I thought, “to have the bandwidth to accessorize.”

*

The psychologist who did my ADHD assessment sent me a 50-page report detailing my test results and her analysis. I told her, “I thought I would be a borderline case.” She said, “You’re not.” My percentiles shocked me, but also validated something I had not known how to express.

Things that other people found hard, I could do in spades. But, my whole life, simple tasks had felt hard to me — because they were hard. A law degree and a doctorate? I never doubted my ability to finish. But putting away laundry? Going to the post office? Kryptonite.

I mourned all the energy I had spent compensating, masking, and feeling ashamed. Relying on deadline terror to crank out projects. Suffering in clothes that irk my nervous system because that’s what others wear. Shouting in loud, thumping restaurants because friends don’t seem to mind. Subjecting myself to smug productivity advice — “Write everyday!” — that made me miserable and didn’t work.

I decided, no more. Diagnosis was a gift.

*

Wearing my new jumpsuit to my reading, I felt ready, relaxed, and free. I could move my limbs. There was no tucking or tugging; no skirt riding up or waist slipping down. No worrying whether I had dressed “appropriately.” In the absence of unnecessary decisions and distractions, I could focus on other things, like not getting lost on my way to the venue, and remembering to bring books.

I could even pay attention while on tour: to the elderly lovebirds I met in one city. A magnificent oak under which I read in another, Spanish moss curtaining around me. My son gleefully seeking the biggest book in a revolutionary people’s library (surprise! it was Marx).

I have since bought several more jumpsuits, some eye-wateringly expensive, but my favorite remains the clearance find from Ross. Go figure.

Long ago, someone told me the way for a woman to look “put together” was to add a third item, like a blazer or scarf, to her top and bottom. At the time, I thought, “Two pieces are hard; now I need three?” I resigned myself to a lifetime of looking partially assembled.

Well, screw that.

Why I Wear Jumpsuits to All My Poetry Readings was originally published in ANMLY on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.