My husband, Terry, is the classiest dresser I know.
He doesn’t just wear clothes.
He honors them.

The man doesn’t own sweatpants.
I’ve only seen him in a sweatshirt once in 35 years.
In college. On Sweatshirt Day.

He wears a pocket square with every chance life gives him.
On vacation, I once saw him lounging by a pool in a sport coat.
With a pocket square.
It wasn’t just folded. It was engineered.
Like a tiny masterpiece of fabric origami.
He looked like he was waiting for James Bond to casually swing by with a charcuterie board.

On the other hand, I could wear the exact same outfit every single day.
And still feel like I’m winning at life.
Jean shorts, a black shirt, and platform wedges.

A few weeks ago, Terry and I went to dinner at a new restaurant.
As we walked in, we bumped into a friend on her way out.
I asked, “Is it dressy in there?” because… well, I had a sneaking suspicion my black shirt and jeans might not scream elegant dining experience.

She glanced at Terry, nodded approvingly, and said, “Well, Terry’s outfit will fit right in. He’s always dressed for fine dining.”
Then she turned to me warmly and added, “You two are the perfect example of opposites attracting.”

Cue my polite laugh.
The universal signal for, “I’m definitely rethinking this outfit and possibly some recent life choices.” Followed by a stealthy glance to ensure I wasn’t unknowingly sporting any rogue spots on my shirt.

Right after we sat down, as if to underline our friend’s earlier comment, a woman walked by, stopped at our table, smiled at Terry, and said, “Your outfit is amazing.”
Then she gave me a quick, polite glance.
The kind you would offer someone who just held the door open for you at a gas station.

That moment should have been a small blip in an otherwise lovely dinner.
But instead, I suddenly felt a sharp awareness of how different we looked sitting there together.

I convinced myself that people were noticing the contrast.
His perfectly tailored blazer and pocket square beside me in what could only be described as my “she came straight from errands” outfit.

But do you know what most people are actually thinking about?
Themselves.
They’re replaying their own conversations.
They’re worried about their outfit.
They’re wondering if anyone noticed that one weird thing they said 20 minutes ago.

The truth is, most people aren’t holding scorecards with your name on them.
They’re holding scorecards with their own name on them.
But somehow, we keep handing them pens and asking them to write down our worth.

Life is not an episode of American Idol, where strangers hold up numbers to rate our performance. But sometimes, we live like it is, waiting for applause, fearing critique, and letting passing and often imagined opinions hold way too much power.

At the end of the day, only one scorecard truly matters.
It’s not held by the woman walking by the table, a friend commenting on your outfit, or a stranger scrolling past your Instagram post.
It’s held by God.

The One who created you intentionally, purposefully, and lovingly.
Who sees your value.
Not because of what you wear, achieve, or how others perceive you.
But because He made you.

When we finally rest in that truth, everything shifts.
We stop performing.
We stop second-guessing.
We stop holding our breath, waiting for validation.
And for the first time, we can exhale.

Because our worth isn’t up for debate.
It’s not determined by passing glances, fleeting opinions, or imagined judgments.
It’s rooted, unshakably and eternally, in the love of the One who created us.
And that’s a foundation no scorecard can undo.