For most of my 19 years of life, I dressed for other people without even realizing it. In elementary school, my style wasn’t my own. Rather, it was my mom’s. Patterned leggings, neon sneakers, ruffled blouses, I wore whatever she picked out for me because clothes were just that: clothes. They weren’t a statement or an identity, just something to throw on before heading to school or the playground. I didn’t think about whether my outfit matched, whether it flattered my body type, or whether it aligned with a particular aesthetic. I was just a kid, and clothes were nothing more than fabric that kept me warm or cool, and comfortable or dressed up for special occasions.
But as I grew older, I became aware that clothing wasn’t just fabric stitched together. It carried meaning that silently shaped how others saw me and, in turn, how I saw myself. Somewhere between childhood and adolescence, I realized that what I wore could dictate whether I blended in or stood out. That realization changed everything.
In middle school, I followed trends like a rulebook and desperately tried to align myself with what was “in.” If the girls wore black leggings, I needed a pair. If Converse were the standard, my old sneakers suddenly felt embarrassing. I remember begging my parents for certain name-brand items as I was convinced that the right pair of shoes or the right logo on my hoodie would be the key to social acceptance.
It wasn’t just about looking good; it was about belonging. Every decision made towards my appearance felt like a balancing act between wanting to be noticed and not wanting to be noticed too much. I was imitating whatever I thought would help me fit in. Even when I liked a piece of clothing, I would hesitate before wearing it if it wasn’t already approved by the invisible consensus of what was considered fashionable at the time.
My high school uniform took some of the pressure of dressing to appease off my shoulders, but the underlying motivation remained the same. I still dressed with other people in mind. I wanted to look good, but not in a way that drew too much attention. I played it safe on weekends: neutral tones, jeans that weren’t too skinny or too loose, and shoes that went with everything. I spent hours scrolling through Instagram and Pinterest saving outfits that looked amazing on others but never quite felt right on me. Even when I wanted to branch out, I hesitated. Would this outfit look weird? Would people think I was trying too hard? The pressure to fit a certain mold, even if it was self-imposed, was suffocating.
But slowly, things started to shift. Not in one defining moment, but through small, quiet changes.
At some point, I stopped avoiding colors I had convinced myself I “couldn’t pull off.” I let myself buy pieces that felt fun even if they didn’t match the rest of my wardrobe. I experimented with subtle choices like layering jackets or swapping sneakers for boots just because I liked how it looked. The more I paid attention to what I enjoyed wearing, the less I cared about whether it aligned with what was trendy or expected.
I started paying attention to what made me feel comfortable in my own skin. Not just physically, but emotionally. I noticed that certain outfits made me feel confident, while others made me feel like I was wearing a costume. I let go of the idea that I had to dress in a way that made sense to others. Instead, I started dressing for myself.
This transition wasn’t an overnight realization. It wasn’t like I suddenly woke up one day and decided I no longer cared what other people thought. One of the biggest shifts in my personal style journey was unlearning all the arbitrary fashion “rules” I had internalized over the years. I’d convinced myself that certain silhouettes weren’t flattering for my body type, that certain colors would wash me out, and that mixing patterns was fashion sin. But who decided these rules? And why had I followed them so strictly even when they made dressing feel restrictive instead of creative?
I let myself break those rules. I wore oversized pieces that didn’t necessarily “accentuate” my shape, but made me feel comfortable and powerful. I wore colors that I used to think clashed, but made me happy when I looked in the mirror. I let myself buy clothes that didn’t necessarily fit into a cohesive aesthetic because I stopped believing that my style had to be one singular thing.
Personal style, I realized, isn’t about perfection. It isn’t about fitting into a mold or finding one “look” and sticking to it forever. It’s fluid and evolves with my mood, my experiences, and the version of myself I am in that moment.
But personal style isn’t just about clothes, it’s about confidence.
Some of my favorite outfits now are ones I wouldn’t have dared to wear years ago – not because they’re particularly bold, but because I wouldn’t have had the confidence to pull them off. Looking back, I realize that I used to associate “pulling something off” with how other people perceived it. Now, I understand that it’s an internal feeling. If I like how I look, if I feel comfortable and aligned with myself, then that’s all that matters.
Now, when I stand in front of my closet, I don’t ask, “Will other people like this?” I ask, “Do I like this?” And that shift has made all the difference.
I no longer feel the need to fit into a specific aesthetic or prove that I have “good style.” I don’t care if my outfit makes sense to anyone else, because the only thing that matters is that it makes sense to me. Dressing for myself has given me a sense of ownership over my identity. It has allowed me to embrace the parts of myself that I used to suppress in order to blend in. It has reminded me that fashion is supposed to be fun, not stressful.
There are still days where I put something on and second-guess if it looks okay and doubt myself. But the difference now is that my inner voice is kinder. Instead of worrying about whether others will approve, I focus on how I feel. And with every outfit that makes me feel like the most authentic version of myself, I get one step closer to fully embracing my evolving personal style.