What If My Personal Style Isn’t So Personal?

Last summer, my best friend and I were drinking an Aperol Spritz in Dimes Square when I noticed scores of women walking by in different iterations of the same outfit: an oversize tee, a skirt, white socks, sneakers or loafers, and some kind of embellishments in their hair. I looked down. I was wearing an oversize button-up, a maxi skirt, white Nike socks, and vintage loafers. Suddenly, everywhere I looked, I saw myself, and it felt mortifying. Who was I to think my outfits were better, or less basic, than anyone else’s?

Now I can’t stop seeing it — my style, versions of all the items in my closet I had so carefully collected, thrifted, and cherished — everywhere: at the bars and restaurants I frequented, on the fashion meme pages I followed, on my walks around my local park in the evening. I had assumed my online algorithm to be personal, with girls dressed in a mix of vintage and secondhand designer, incorporating girly nostalgia with subversive menswear. It’s hard to pinpoint where it began, but just browse any New York City style influencer’s page like Lindsay Vrckovnik’s, Mandy Lee’s, Anaa Saber’s, and Harling Ross’s, or search for any major city’s group of designers who aren’t considered mainstream — Sandy Liang, Collina Strada, Maryam Nassir Zadeh, Luar — and you’ll see what I’m talking about.

I moved to New York City from Texas when I was 18. Back home, I played multiple sports, and ease of movement was important to me and essential to the clothes I wore. I thrifted clothes: mostly oversize T-shirts and menswear items. When I saved up some money from lifeguarding, the first expensive item I purchased was a pair of Tory Burch Miller sandals after I saw the popular girl from my high school wearing them. After I moved to the city, I spent my late teens and early 20s on a grimy block primarily occupied by college-age kids and fresh to New York young adults. I adopted their uniform: jeans, black tops, Air Force Ones (or whatever the trending sneaker was of the year), and an expensive yet uninspired purse.

When I was 23, I got my first “big girl job” and subsequent paycheck and craved change. I found it in a more self-possessed and residential part of Brooklyn. I started identifying as queer. I went from texting friends ahead of hangouts to make sure my outfit would match the vibe (“Are we wearing sweats to the movies or more cute”) to just showing up in whatever I wanted, finding myself somewhat embarrassed if my friends and I all wore similar outfits. It felt like the first time I had carved out a distinct sense of style for myself, which felt both comfortable and true. It was easy to get dressed, and that was something I had spent most of my life striving for.

I wanted my style to communicate that I knew what was cool, but I didn’t care too much. I found that in pieces from designers, like the vintage Marni trousers that I bought at Second Street or my worn-in ’90s Gucci loafers I bought in Japan, and funkier pieces from smaller designers, like a pair of striped pink cargo pants from Damson Madder or fun accessories including an oversize white linen scrunchie from Good Squish. I would mix all those pieces in an interesting way that, I thought, was unique. So why did it feel so embarrassing to see hoards of other women dressed like me in Dimes Square, or why did I need to hide my Sandy Liang x Salomon shoes after one person off-handedly said, “Of course you have those”? What does looking like every other queer fashion-adjacent 25-year-olds say about me? Do we all follow the same influencers? Or that I don’t know myself?

Last year, I bought a short dress and heels to break the mold of my style. They sat in my closet for months; I didn’t want to wear them. It didn’t feel like me. Instead, I reached day after day for my maxi skirts and oversize tees or continued to pair my more feminine dresses with sneakers and my heels with oversize pants and a loose top. What I realized was that in the age of social media, a sense of uniqueness is damn near impossible to find. And maybe it’s overrated. We are all getting our style from somewhere; why not let it be from other queer kids my age? I’m at a time in my life when getting dressed is a relief, and I want my style to feel like an affirmation that I am seen, not treat it like a competition. I don’t see my identity as a fixed thing either; it’s a work in progress, created day after day, post after post, outfit after outfit.

Recently, at a Fashion Week party, I saw a woman wearing a pair of Cecilie Bahnsen mary janes that immediately caught my attention. Instead of feeling jealous, I quickly walked over and asked her where she got the shoes, and she provided me with the secondhand store where she bought them. We had a quick conversation; albeit brief, we still shared a connection. At least enough that if I ever saw her again, I would feel something other than envy at seeing someone dressed in a way similar to me; I’d offer a smile and ask her about her recent store finds.