How Getting Dressed Became a Love Letter to Myself

“Style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.” ~Rachel Zoe

I didn’t set out to find myself.

I just looked in the mirror one day and thought, “Wait, when did I stop looking like me?”

It was after a breakup—the kind that leaves you foggy, emotionally threadbare, trying to make sense of where you lost yourself.

There I was, standing in my bedroom, wearing something functional, outdoorsy, and… completely not me.

Not that there’s anything wrong with cargo pants and fleece. If that’s your style, it’s beautiful.

But I’m a woman who grew up in Paris… who loves texture, shape, and color… who used to wear lipstick to the grocery store just because it made her feel fancy.

And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dressed in a way that made me feel alive.

That moment wasn’t dramatic. But it stuck—like a pebble in my shoe, a quiet awareness I couldn’t unfeel.

I didn’t know what to do with it at first. So I just started noticing. What I wore. What I reached for. What I missed.

What felt like one tiny step closer to me—and what felt like someone (anyone) else.

And slowly, without meaning to, I started finding my way back.

Not through journaling. Not through therapy. Through style.

I didn’t realize it then, but I was starting to come home to myself—one outfit at a time.

I’ve always felt like a cultural mosaic—beautifully complex in theory, but hard to hold in one piece.

Indian by heritage. East African family roots. Raised across four countries. A mix of accents, traditions, languages, and ways of seeing the world.

And for a long time, I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be in the middle of all that.

In some circles, I was too Western. In others, I felt too brown, too “other.” Even within my own community, I often sensed I was too different… not traditional enough.

I became skilled at shape-shifting—blending in where I could, toning down what felt inconvenient. Quietly collecting contradictions I didn’t know how to resolve.

I tried, of course. I read the books. Took the workshops. Hired the coaches. I journaled and meditated and therapized and “mantra-ed” myself half to death. I even became a coach.

Most of it helped, in its own way.

But the strangest, most honest kind of healing didn’t happen in a coaching session or on a yoga mat. It happened in my closet.

It started quietly. One night, I found myself picking out an outfit for the next day… Not to impress. Not to curate a look. Just to feel a little more like myself. And for some reason, that felt good. Gentle. Reassuring.

So I did it again the next night. And the next.

Eventually, it became a ritual. Just me, slowing down long enough to check in with myself.

I started to ask questions like:

What parts of me want to show up tomorrow?
What feeling do I want to carry into the day?
Which pieces make me feel alive?

Then I would choose clothes that reflected whatever answers came through.

Sometimes that meant bold color and structured lines—something that said, I’m here, and I’m not hiding.

Sometimes it meant soft, draping fabrics—something that let me exhale.

Sometimes it meant a mix of things that didn’t “go” but somehow felt like the truest version of me.

Like I was letting the paradoxes live on my body instead of just in my head.

And in doing that—in actually wearing my contradictions, wrapping them in silk and denim and thread—I began to make peace with them. And I began to stop seeing them as flaws to explain away or hide and start seeing them as richness. Texture. Evidence of a life deeply lived.

Instead of trying to resolve the tension, I let it be beautiful. I let it belong. And strangely, that softened something in me.

The shame that once whispered, “Pick a side, be clearer, be less confusing” quieted.

I began to trust that I could hold multitudes—and still be whole.

In the morning, when I’d slip into those clothes, it wasn’t just about getting dressed. It was an act of allowing. Allowing myself to be seen. To take up space. To be complex, contradictory, and still worthy of beauty. A quiet yes to the fullness of who I am—who I’ve always been.

What surprised me most was how I started to feel.

How could something external—something as seemingly superficial as clothing—give me the elusive confidence I’d spent years chasing on the inside?

Maybe it wasn’t about the clothes at all. Maybe it was about permission.

To be seen. To feel beautiful on my own terms. To tell the truth of who I am—not with words, but with fabric and color and silhouette.

Maybe it was about giving my body a chance to speak… and learning how to listen.

Every evening, I still take a few quiet minutes to pick out what I’ll wear the next day. Not because I’m trying to project something. But because it helps me connect to something.

It’s one of the only parts of my day that feels completely mine—not rushed, not reactive. A soft pause. A moment to land.

Clothing has become a kind of mirror. And that moment of dressing has become a form of meditation. Not the sitting-still kind. The remembering kind. The reconnecting kind.

I thought I was just playing with fabrics and silhouettes. But I was actually coming home to myself—piece by piece.

Listening to what felt good. Letting go of what didn’t. Making space for multiple parts of me to coexist.

That’s the thing I never expected: something as ordinary as choosing an outfit—something we all have to do anyway—can become a love letter to yourself. If you let it.