There’s a particular feeling that settles in when reading the lives of the desert fathers—those extraordinary monks who left everything behind to seek God in silence and hardship. Their unwavering devotion, their single-minded striving toward holiness, makes someone like me feel small and terribly ordinary. Compared to their sacrifices, my own spiritual life seems fragile, fragmented, diluted by the countless responsibilities and comforts of the modern world.

It’s unreasonable, of course, to measure my life as a contemporary laywoman against the ascetic feats of ancient monastics. I have a family, a home, work, daily concerns. Yet one experience shook me enough to force the question: Can someone like me be saved at all?

My husband and I once traveled to the remote Nikolo-Babaevsky Monastery in the forests of the Yaroslavl region. We weren’t going as pilgrims; he had an important conversation scheduled with the abbot, and I simply accompanied him. The journey itself felt like crossing into another century—cold winds, changing rides, a long road through the woods. We stayed there for two days, attending services and observing the monastic life up close.

What struck me most was the starkness of it all: the unadorned cells, the severe simplicity of their daily life, a world where modern comforts barely existed. It was hard to imagine people living this way, yet here they were—peaceful, prayerful, grounded. This was the very monastery where Saint Ignatius Brianchaninov spent his final days.

Returning home to my warm, well-equipped apartment, I felt unsettled. A quiet voice nagged at me: How can I hope for salvation when I rely on so many comforts? Not just electricity or heating, but the daily routines I’ve grown accustomed to—skincare, clean clothes, a favorite dress? I buy creams in beautiful jars. I enjoy wearing stylish, though modest, dresses. And the painful truth was this: I wasn’t willing to give them up.

So I brought these worries to my spiritual father. His response surprised me by its clarity.

He spoke of the Holy Royal Martyrs—specifically the Empress Alexandra. Her life was one of deep faith, constant prayer, devotion to her husband, her children, and her people. And yet, she also cared about her appearance. She used the best self-care products available in her time. She dressed beautifully. None of this made her less holy—because her heart was not attached to these things. They were simply practical parts of her role, not objects of her desire.

“Yes,” he told me, “an empress must look radiant. And an ordinary wife should bring joy to her husband’s eyes. Caring for yourself is normal. The danger lies not in the cream or the dress, but in letting them occupy your heart.”

Christ’s words echo this truth: “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

A woman living in the modern world is not called to imitate a monk’s life. But she is called to guard her heart. She is called to ensure that nothing earthly—beauty, comfort, possessions—becomes a substitute for God. It is possible to live in the world, with a family, and still orient one’s soul toward heaven. But it requires attention, honesty, and balance.

At home, still thinking about this conversation, I opened a favorite book—a collection of letters and diary entries by Empress Alexandra Feodorovna. Her words felt like cool, clear water for a weary heart. Some passages were so striking I wanted to write them down again, including this one:

“As the charm of physical beauty fades with time because of labors and cares, the beauty of the soul must shine ever brighter, replacing what is lost. A wife must care most of all about pleasing her husband, and not anyone else. …Do not give up on your appearance. …And the wisdom and strength she needs to fulfill the sacred duties of a wife—she can find them only by turning to God.”

Her words reminded me that holiness is not found in rejecting the world entirely, but in using everything—beauty, responsibilities, talents—without clinging to them.

In the end, it really isn’t about the dresses.
It’s about the heart that chooses whom they are for—and what ultimately matters most.