When I was a kid and all my time was for myself, I would spend hours analyzing and dissecting details of high fashion magazines. The photography entranced me, page after page pieces of haute couture drew me in; it was my realization that fashion is wearable art. I was fascinated. I collected every issue of W magazine I could get my hands on, creating such a heavy pile that my basic closet wire shelving gave way. Minimalistic advertisements were my favorite, stunning models poised & breathless on glossy pages, draped in sharp silhouettes, adorned with glinting jewels. It became common place to have magazine tear-outs of Diesel and Prada’s latest ad campaigns directly competing with my favorite musicians for wall space.

Growing up in central jersey didn’t exactly expose me to the finer things in life, nor did I grow up experiencing significant poverty. My parents were middle class, financially responsible, and intentionally frugal during our tighter times. We had periods of wealth where my mom would treat us (my picks typically being clothes from The Limited Too) and other times where we weren’t as comfortable financially. I recall being enthralled by the idea of going out to eat for a birthday; dining in a restaurant became rare. Through everything, my parents always made sure we had what we needed.

I grew up to wear what I knew to be acceptable in my environment. In high school, I often was too exhausted to dress myself in anything other than school branded sweat sets, with the phrase ‘SENIORS 2007’ screen printed in white down the right leg. It was easy and safe from judgement. Back then my style felt conformative; I adapted to buying whatever my friends were wearing and adopted what I thought was their own personal sense of style.

Over time, I obtained a monstrous pile of unwearable clothing. Terrible $20 shirts and pants made of frankenstein-esque polyester and acrylic blends littered every inch of my closet, overflowing into my room. The pile haunted me. Younger me made sure to spare no color or print, no matter how clashing. It was incredibly wasteful. The clothes never made me feel good about myself. My logic was more clothes = more options = more outfits = more style = happiness. More is more, right?

I was chasing a feeling unattainable through quick fixes. I craved the brash stability I witnessed as a girl emanated by both men and women alike, statuesque in contrasting lines positioned opposed stark backgrounds. They were powerful, confident, visible. They looked as if they could take on the world. Everything I had understood clothes to make me feel was beneficial to my future self, yet here I found myself suffocating under a mound of impulsive fast fashion purchases that disgusted and depressed me.

This specific photo above is the catalyst for my transformation. Here I was with my amazing fiance, enjoying a beautiful day and I was absolutely miserable. How I felt inside didn’t translate to my appearance.