When you think of a traditional wedding dress, what comes to mind? In the United States, maybe it’s a frothy white princess gown layered with tulle and satin. In Korea, perhaps a red hanbok symbolizing good fortune and new beginnings. In India, an embroidered saree, rich with meaning. Every culture carries its own vision of what a wedding dress should embody. But I doubt many would imagine a tablecloth.

My mother wore a tablecloth to her wedding. It was a beautiful old thing, but one that bore the marks of time: stains from her mother’s infamous soups, wax drippings from candles, and frayed edges softened by years of children’s sticky fingers. This isn’t to say she walked down the aisle looking like a family of five had just dined at Applebee’s and used her as a napkin. On the contrary, she was radiant.

With the help of her cousin-in-law—a tailor—she transformed the fabric into an elegant dress. They worked carefully to preserve the tablecloth’s integrity, crafting a gown of simplistic beauty: ankle-length with a classic crew neckline, delicate cap sleeves, and a sash cinching the waist. Though photographs barely capture it, the brocade fabric lent the dress a hint of old-world elegance.

In my mother’s case, the tablecloth-turned-dress wasn’t just a practical solution; it was a deliberate choice to honor the past while stepping into the future. It was a rejection of the notion that a wedding dress must be pristine, untouched by life, and instead embraced the idea that beauty lies in the imperfect, in the worn, and in the lived-in.

There’s something poetic about turning a tablecloth into a wedding dress. Fabric meant to drape a table—to serve, to witness ordinary and extraordinary family moments—became the centerpiece of a new beginning. Its history didn’t detract from its beauty; it enhanced it. Each mark and imperfection spoke of love, memory, and the richness of shared histories.

This transformation challenges us to consider what gives our garments meaning. Is it the compliments we receive when wearing them? The brand name stitched into the label? Or is it the stories they hold, the memories they carry, and their connection to moments and people we cherish?

In a world dominated by speed, these questions feel especially urgent. Today, clothing often lacks narrative weight. We buy, wear, discard, repeat. Garments are stripped of their potential to become heirlooms, transformed instead into fleeting adornments.

But what if our clothing held stories worth remembering? What if, like my mother’s dress, they carried the weight of significance—of family, history, and love? Perhaps we’d pause before discarding them, treating them not as replaceable objects but as vessels of memory.

I’m reminded of the song "Seasons of Love" from the Broadway musical RENT. The song asks, "How do you measure a year?" and answers, "In love." It's a reminder that the value of time—and by extension, the value of the things within it—cannot be quantified by superficial metrics. Love, memory, and meaning are what infuse our lives with worth, and the same applies to the clothes we wear.

This idea isn’t new. Designer Vivienne Westwood, for example, has long championed meaningful consumption. In fact, she herself used tablecloths in her designs, blending fashion with environmental activism. Her campaign, "No Fun Being Extinct," highlighted overconsumption and cultural erasure, urging us to rethink not only what we wear but why.

Westwood’s approach—where even a tablecloth can become high art—underscores the power of intentionality. Like my mother’s dress, her designs transform the mundane into the extraordinary, proving that beauty doesn’t have to come at the planet’s expense.

So, what gives your clothes meaning? Is it their pristine condition or the lives they’ve lived with you? As Westwood once said, “Choose well. Buy less.” And, I might add, don’t be afraid to reimagine. A tablecloth might just become a wedding dress. A dress might become a keepsake. And what we wear might just become a reflection of who we are.