One of the first things I notice when looking at someone new – classmates, mutuals on Instagram, people passing by me on the street – is their clothes. Not because I have a particular interest in fashion, but because I think it might give me an insight into who they are. 

But does it really? Do clothes really provide a reasonable perception of someone?

There are certain societal expectations that come with certain types of clothing, most of which I don’t think are true. If you wear crop tops and leggings, you’re basic. If you wear hoodies and sweatpants, you’re careless. If you wear dresses and blouses, you’re girly. The sheer thought of these preconceived (and potentially harmful) notions being formed solely on personal style stresses me out. It makes me wonder: how do people perceive me?

If I wear a pair of ripped jeans and cropped graphic t-shirts, will people think I’m edgy? Or, if I wear a knitted turtleneck and dress pants, will people think I’m elegant and put together? Probably not. Yet I still remain uncomfortable with the potential implications that come with these clothing types, because it feels at odds with my personality. So, maybe my fashion-related discomforts don’t only stem from others’ perceptions of me, but rather, my own lack of understanding of my fashion preferences as well. 

Being entrenched in the vast realm of Pinterest and Get Ready With Me TikToks, I often feel that as a nineteen year old, I should have my personal aesthetic pinpointed. Am I a dark academia girly? Or am I more grunge? Cottagecore? To be honest, I’m not sure what those terms truly mean. I don’t always understand what colours clash or look good together. I’m not keen on what shades and styles suit my complexion and body type. I dislike going shopping and thrifting sometimes because I’m afraid others might see just how fashion-incompetent I am. 

This is not to say that I don’t like the clothes I own. I have my favourite thrifted graphic tees. Ripped jeans are a staple in my closet, so much so that I have the same ones in multiple colours. I have my well-loved cargo pants and hoodies. But I also have a pair of wide-leg dress pants and a long wool coat that I absolutely adore, and I don’t know how that fits into my personal aesthetic, or if it should even have to. And, like most people, I still keep pieces of clothing that I like less in my closet, just in case I don’t do laundry and run out of things to wear. 

I also often wonder why I don’t like wearing suits, since I enjoy wearing dress pants and turtlenecks. Blazers and button ups should make me feel powerful, but instead I find them suffocating. It’s not because I hate how they look or find them physically uncomfortable, but because I dislike how I feel in them. Like I’m wearing some sort of costume, trying to play a part I have never practiced before – one that I don’t even want to play. Formal wear makes me feel like I have to live up to expectations I’m not sure I can reach. 

The lack of coherency in my closet and personal taste bothers me, because I’m afraid it might be a reflection of who I am as a person; conflicted, unsure of how to define my identity. Not being able to put a label on my sense of style is frustrating… but maybe it can also be freeing? Maybe the lack of constraints on my personal style can allow me to explore new versions of myself.

For a long time, I mostly wore black clothing; it felt like armour, in a way. It felt as if wearing bright colours would leave me exposed, open to all the hurt existing in the world. Although suddenly, I stepped out of my comfort zone and wore a pink hoodie for the first time, and a friend commented that I looked really good in it. After that, slowly, I started incorporating more pinks and blues and oranges into my closet. It felt right, like I was meant to be wearing them. 

As best as I can articulate it, my sense of style is “whatever feels like me.” What that means, I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that I feel like me when I put on my Timberland boots or my brown knitted sweater. I feel like me when I don my Queen’s quarter zip or my Tommy Hilfiger socks. 

So, maybe I don’t have to conform to one specific sense of style. Maybe fashion doesn’t always have to be a method of personal expression. Maybe what I wear doesn’t have to be tied to my identity. Maybe clothes can just be pieces of fabric, if that’s what I want them to be. 

Header: Sydney Hanson