“How do I look?” It’s the question asked by the mirror, often in confidence, other times in fear of the answer. It’s the subtext for every outfit I style it photo I post. It’s the underlying message under every thought I have. It’s never just about appearance. I don’t dress alone- I never have. 

Everytime I slip on a new outfit, I’m paying an unwitting tribute. My sense of style is stitched with silhouettes of everyone I’ve ever loved. Respected. Admired. I may be a singular person, but I carry with me a shared sense of style. 

The dress I pop on whenever I need a feeling of comfort, once was my mums. Her perfume lingers in the neckline. The soft notes of amber and sandalwood wrapping a blanket of reassurance around me as I step out into adulthood. The stitching at the hem coming undone from everytime she danced too hard, now fraying more from me making the same decisions. 

The black spaghetti strap top I stole from my best friend Ellie’s wardrobe so often it found its way permanently into mine. The way it travelled around our friend group, experiencing every bad karaoke song, disastrous drunk decision and late night snack. 

Even strangers leave marks. The tall woman I saw my first day in Paris who dazzled with brown eyeliner in her waterline, a staple I now never leave home without. My local barista at my usual coffee shop with chipped nail polish and messy hair who taught me it was okay to let loose, let yourself look less than perfect. 

Fashion is more than an aesthetic. It’s a love letter. A scrapbook. A visual history of anyone I have ever met. I wear my heartbreaks on my hemlines and my triumphs in statement earrings.

I’m a mirror of everyone whose path I’ve crossed. A living collage. A walking diary. I’m unique because of those who inspire me. My sense of self is deepened everytime I meet someone new.