“Style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.” – Rachel Zoe
My Interpretation: Fashion is my language. It translates what my voice trembles to say. It tells the world, I am here, I am layered, I am complicated, I am soft, I am strong & I am allowed to take up space.
The Walking Oxymoron Era – Part 4
There has always been a disconnect between how I look & who I am.
Not because I am trying to confuse anyone –
but because I refuse to make myself small just to keep other people comfortable.
Some people radiate confidence.
I radiate contradiction.
People see the outfit first,
then they hear my shy voice,
& suddenly their brains break like an old DVD player trying to load a scratched disc.
Good.
Let it glitch.
I am not here to fit anyone’s default settings.
Style as Survival, Not Performance
I used to be Blair Waldorf coded –
bows, skirts, coordinated chaos, the pretty version of perfectionism.
I dressed like I believed that effort would earn safety.
But fashion changed.
Everyone copied everyone.
Suddenly my style was a trend, & my instinctive reaction was:
Absolutely not.
If the world is going left, I am going diagonally.
Do not follow me.
It is not rebellion.
It is self-preservation.
When my identity starts looking like a costume everyone else is wearing, I switch genres.
Dark, moody, lace, eyeliner –
not emo, not goth –
just “I feel deeply & I dress accordingly.”
If I am going to be seen, then I will choose the terms.
If you want to stare, stare at something that is honestly me.
Some days it is black because I do not want to be perceived.
Some days it is pink because I am reminding myself, I exist.
Some days it is boots because heels are a hazard to my mental & physical stability.
Style is emotional weather.
Mine changes daily.
Confidence vs Caution
People assume I am confident because my clothes are not quiet.
Let us clear that up.
I am rarely confident.
I am usually calculating escape routes like I am in a grocery store simulation of Saw.
I do not walk into a room like I own it.
I walk in like,
Where is the safest corner?
Who is going to talk to me?
How fast can I leave without looking rude?
My outfits are not confidence.
They are camouflage.
They are armor.
They are my socially acceptable version of,
Please do not perceive me unless you plan to be kind.
I look like the main character because my anxiety choreographs every step.
Younger, Older, Church Ladies, Walmart Strangers – Everyone Has Opinions
Let me say this plainly:
If they do not feed you, fund you, or fuck you, they do not get a vote.
Older generations love telling younger women how to dress.
Younger generations love judging older women for daring to still exist.
Church ladies whisper like gossip is a spiritual gift.
Strangers at Walmart stare like they have never seen a personality before.
Who cares?
People will always talk when they see someone living outside the template they settled for.
But here is the truth:
Most of the people judging your outfit have never had the courage to develop a personality of their own.
Wear the skirt.
Wear the boots.
Wear the eyeliner.
Wear the pink.
Wear the black.
Wear the lace.
Wear the oversized hoodie.
Wear the tiny top.
Wear the dramatic coat that swishes when you walk.
The world will adjust. Let them gasp, whisper, hold their pearls – you just ignore the murmurs. If it gets to be to obnoxious? Pull an Emma Stone from Easy A on them all & put that Scarlett A on your chest.
The Loudness of Quiet People
When people say I light up a room, I laugh internally.
I am not lighting up anything.
Except maybe that overstimulated cigarette…
I am trying not to combust.
Quiet people are not weak.
We are observant.
We are calculating.
We are usually the ones carrying the emotional weight of the entire room –
because no one else knows how to.
We dress loudly because our voices hesitate.
We dress boldly because our hearts do not.
We dress differently because blending in has never protected us.
My clothes say the things I refuse to say out loud.
Not because I want attention –
but because I want autonomy.
Self-Awareness with Sequins
Listen.
I know my outfits are dramatic.
I know I look like I have a backstory, a playlist, & possibly three hidden diaries.
I know people’s eyes follow me when I walk in.
But that is the point.
My clothes are not for them.
They are for me.
To feel alive.
To feel expressive.
To feel like I am allowed to take up space without apologizing for existing.
When someone compliments my outfit, it does not feel superficial.
It feels like recognition.
It feels like someone saying,
I see the intention.
I see the effort.
I see you.
Recognition is intimacy for people who hide behind quietness.
The Reflection
Style is not fabric.
It is biography.
Every outfit is a page.
Every accessory is a sentence.
Every color is a mood I was brave enough to show instead of hide.
Some days I am bold font.
Some days I am parentheses.
Some days I am highlighted text you will not forget.
But all of it is me.
Wearable contradictions.
Confidence stitched into caution.
A soft girl in sharp clothes.
A loud closet housing a quiet soul.
If you do not fit the mold, good.
You were not meant to.
The mold was too small for you anyway.
Xoxo ♡
Whisper to the ghosts. Yell into the void. Just don’t be an asshole.