“Don’t Go Back to Those Places”: Chronicling my Style Journey
I hated getting ready for school; waking up to my high-pitched 6:00 am alarm, sliding out of my bed without any assistance from my limbs, and raising my blinds as the sun pierced my sleepy eyes. There was one step in my morning routine that I dreaded most: getting dressed. I vigorously tore apart my closet – shirts flying, piles of pants at my feet, my small selection of shoes staring back at me. As I looked around at my room in disarray, I saw puzzle pieces scattered on my floor. Some pieces were missing, some didn’t have connecting pieces at all. Before my day even started, I was overwhelmed and uninspired.
As I grasped for outfit inspiration, I quickly turned to Pinterest and Instagram, only to find their clothing suggestions too expensive or inappropriate for a sophomore in high school. I thought back to the styles commonly circulating in my school: cropped shirts, tight, high-waisted pants, and shoes costing the same as a flight to Paris Fashion Week. Not only were the popular brands financially inaccessible, the clothes themselves physically disagreed with me. With my stomach exposed from the cropped tops and tight jeans, I concealed my body in whatever way possible as I tried to execute daily tasks. The constricting waist and unforgiving denim dominated my thoughts; this compressed physical sensation remained at the forefront of my brain.
After sacrificing time, energy, and arguably too much mental capacity for six in the morning, I landed on an outfit. Examining my ensemble in the mirror, I felt inadequate compared to my classmates' high-end clothing brands. My body felt out of place as I tried to make ill-fitting clothing items fit. I’d stare back at my sweatpants and baggy jeans with longing, as those made me feel most comfortable. No one wore clothes like that at my high school, I thought. Why would I? Similar sentiments emerged when I tackled the daunting task of shopping. What began as an “opportunity to reinvent my wardrobe” soon became a disheartening, empty-handed exit. Intending to adopt my peers' style, I kept an eye out for “fashionable” clothes. Selecting sizes for those clothes was even more difficult. When size 4 jeans didn’t fit the same way they did months prior, my confidence dropped. After mornings or events like this, I left the house lacking confidence, and it wouldn’t be until months later that I would realize my self-expression.
On an ordinary Thursday afternoon, the solution surfaced on the dance floor. While addressing an injured student, my director said, “if you get hurt in two places, don’t go back to those places.” My eyes widened as the pieces began falling into place. My dance teacher’s arbitrary advice, cautioning my peers to avoid dancing on injured body parts or performing harmful moves, acted as the catalyst for my style journey. While “places” originally referred to my fellow dancers’ wrists or achilles tendons, for me, it meant Zara and Bloomingdales. I consistently felt insecure in these stores, and even more insecure in their clothes – why did I continue returning?
My style journey advanced during the pandemic. Forced to quarantine in my Brooklyn apartment, I broke the connection with my high school community and felt less pressure to adhere to certain appearances. I lived in oversized sweaters and loose-fitting pants, making my morning routine quick, simple, and pleasant. One morning, I made myself a cup of coffee in my favorite baggy ripped jeans. My mom looked at me and said, “Antonia, those look beautiful on you. We should get you more of those.” I looked down at my $10 ripped jeans I thrifted from Buffalo Exchange two weeks prior. They didn’t restrict my stomach or make me feel uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t I get more?
Another severed connection due to the pandemic was the subway. Without public transportation or a car, I had less access to mainstream clothing brands. This loss created space for new kinds of shopping, as my mother and I explored local thrift stores and new clothing brands. I dug and sifted through each unique item of clothing, selecting pieces that I liked and wanted to wear. Trying on a forest green polo sweater in L Train Vintage, I smiled as I realized I love shopping.
High-waisted jeans don’t feel good on my body. So, I won’t buy them. Pairing an old t-shirt with a pair of khaki pants does feel good. So, I will buy those. Comments of “you don’t fit your clothes, your clothes fit you” circulate conversations of body image and mental health, but that didn’t resonate until this moment. I love following trends and gaining inspiration from social media, but not every trend works for me, and that's okay. With these concepts in mind, I gathered methods to assure my confidence in my clothes. When I secure a pair of oversized pants with a shoelace in the back, I never notice if they fit me differently from weeks before.
While thrifting and secondhand shopping started as a mere solution to my clothing dilemma, it grew into a hobby and enjoyable pass time. There is so much joy in searching for pieces of clothing that you connect with. There’s even more joy in feeling good in your outfits – physically and mentally. Thrifting not only helped me find my style but helped me feel good in my skin. I now love waking up in the morning – and I love getting dressed.
