Now that winter has arrived, with its bone-chilling winds and dark nights that start in the afternoon, I find myself reaching more and more for one particular jumper, which used to be loose-fitting and now is anything but. When I took it out of the washing machine and realised it should never have been in there in the first place – and that, as a result, it looked like something my toddler might wear – I felt angry and disappointed with myself for my mistake. But this soon transformed into elation when, after giving it a bit of a stretch, I found not only that it still fitted, but that it did so like a glove.

In shrinking, the fabric has transformed. Previously a lightweight spring number, the jumper has become a tightly woven, thermal-style top that keeps me toasty, letting no air in or out and giving very little, like a woollen wetsuit. In it, I am impervious to the cold – I don’t even need a coat. Wearing it feels like receiving a tight hug, which, in these dark days, is exactly what I want. The only problem is that the neck sometimes seems so constricting that it feels as if I can’t breathe.

But what on earth, you may be thinking, has this got to do with building a better life?

Well, sometimes a shrunken jumper is not just a shrunken jumper. At times, we all find ourselves reaching for a protective outer layer that feels comfortable and comforting because it is impenetrable. We unconsciously believe that this psycho-emotional thermal will shield us from the cold, darkness and rejection that threaten to come from other people and, perhaps more frighteningly, from within us. It feels safe and warm inside this protective force field – but the reality is that, in a fundamental way that has nothing to do with oxygen, we cannot breathe. We might feel relieved to be at a distance from others who could reject us, but we might also find ourselves unable to make contact with others who could offer us love, care and attention. And we might find ourselves unable to love them back.

Whether the dark and cold come from the climate outside or our own internal weather, the temptation to wrap up comprehensively needs to be thought about. If we wear too many thick layers, we will end up a hot, sweaty mess; if we give in to the instinct to hibernate, barricade the doors, eschew the office party and do nothing but watch movies and eat chocolate for months, we could find that we never want to leave the house again. And if our response to heartbreak – whether romantic or platonic – is never to let anyone in, to keep all others at a safe distance where they cannot hurt us, we risk a loneliness that is even more painful, and far more difficult to emerge from, than a relationship breakdown.

I often wonder about the psychological and emotional meaning of wearing clothes that cling: skinny jeans, skintight T-shirts and Kim Kardashian’s Skims shapewear. I think it’s not just about how these clothes make us look, but also about how we want to feel inside. Deep down, we crave a feeling of emotional containment, but this kind of psychological skin cannot be ordered online. When we are missing a sense of feeling secure with boundaries, safe within ourselves – unable to find meaning in our emotions and thoughts, instead feeling constantly overwhelmed by them – perhaps we seek a secure physical container instead. One thing I have noticed is that the deeper I have gone into psychoanalysis, the looser my clothes have become. Slim-fit rather than skinny. A little more space to breathe.

You may argue that these changes came about because fashion has moved on, I have aged and my style has changed for other reasons – a natural progression from skinny jeans to mom jeans. I am sure that’s also true. Part of growing up in my analysis has meant being able to hold in mind that many different things can be true at the same time. But I also think that, as my analyst has offered me a different kind of containment, and as my own psychic skin has grown more robust as a result, I have less need to seek this in my wardrobe.

This brings me back to my shrunken jumper, which I continue to wear, despite its suffocating neck. It is comfortable and uncomfortable – like those old skinny jeans. It may be that I cling to it so tightly because I cannot bear the loss of a much-loved sweater that came to harm by my own hand. That’s the thing about building a better life and a more comfortable wardrobe (and about breathing out): you have to learn to let go.

Moya Sarner is an NHS psychotherapist and the author of When I Grow Up – Conversations With Adults in Search of Adulthood