Every morning I look at myself in the mirror and ask the world’s most terrifying question: Who do I want to be today?
It’s not just about putting on pants one leg at a time. It’s a full-blown existential crisis, performed in front of a bathroom mirror, under fluorescent lighting, with the clock ticking dangerously close to whatever commitment I’ve overestimated my ability to be on time for. The stakes? My sense of identity, social survival, thermoregulation, and maybe even feminist rebellion.
Should I spend an hour creating the perfect look? A mix of colour, fabric, silhouette and mood—and step out the door dressed as the goth raven queen I know I was in a past life? Or should I throw on my girlfriend’s jumper, some half-washed blue jeans, and the Ugg boots that have lost their will to live (and all waterproofing) just to make it to class before the attendance sheet goes around?
Maybe I’m in a dress mood. Or a jorts mood. Or a "God forbid I wear a skirt in this wind" kind of mood.
Should I wear a headband? Straighten my bangs? Do my patterned tights make me look cool or do they make a weird noise when I walk like a haunted accordion? Imagine getting chased and not being able to run because your hemline got caught on your platform boots. Death by aesthetic. That's all I can ask for.
Stick to leggings? Too basic. But at least I won’t die. Unless I freeze, which is likely in this godforsaken southern city. Okay, what about a coat? But I’ll sweat to death in class. Then I’ll have to take it off, and everyone will look at me and think I’m trying to be seen. I mean I am trying to be seen—but only by the right amount, and the right kind of people. The non-judgy hot ones. You know the type.
It always ends the same way: “Fuck it.”
But “Fuck it” means something different every time.
“Fuck it, I’ll be cold.”
“Fuck it, I’m a goth baddie.”
“Fuck it, I’ll blend in.”
“Fuck it, I’m staying home in my PJs and re-watching Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2006.”
Because the truth is, it’s never just about clothes. Getting dressed is a ritual. It’s self-construction. It’s costume design for the drama that is your daily life and, if you’re anything like me, it’s taken you a long time to even begin figuring out what to wear—because you’re still figuring out who you are.
I like to imagine myself as a lady-in-waiting when I go out. Puffy sleeves, delicate lace, soft velvet, dramatic skirts. There’s something sacred about standing in front of a mirror, brushing out my hair, sliding on rings like tiny spells, adjusting the bodice of a thrifted dress with the quiet reverence of someone in love with their reflection—not out of vanity, but victory.
Because, the truth is, I wasn’t always brave enough to love her.
Clothing is political. It’s protest. It’s privilege. I feel it every time I slide on a pair of pants—a right denied to most women for centuries. Once illegal, even radical, trousers on a female body still carry echoes of rebellion. I feel it in the absence of pockets, in the tiny stitched shut suggestions of what could’ve been functional but was never meant to be. I feel it in the comments at the bar, the eyes that linger too long, the way a crop top can become a justification in someone else’s mouth. I feel it in the silent calculations we make before leaving the house: Will this outfit get me gawked at? Grabbed? Followed?
I feel it in the fear of dressing too sexy, too loud, too queer, too anything. We’ve all heard it: You’re asking for it. As if fabric choices are invitations. As if being visible is dangerous and sometimes, it is.
I don’t want to be yelled at. I want to be admired. I want to be seen, safe, and soft. I want to take up space and be left alone in it. To be interesting without being interrogated. Beautiful without being targeted. I want to be complimented without consequence.
It’s a tightrope walk between self-expression and self-protection. Between the joy of getting dressed and the dread of being perceived. We dress with intention and hope—hope that the world will receive us gently. That we won’t be punished for daring to look like ourselves.
But dressing is also a joy. It’s the giddy thrill of playing dress-up with your adult body, curating your identity from your closet. It’s watching runway models strut like goddesses, and then recreating that magic with a bedsheet and a safety pin because fashion should be play. It’s sewing at your kitchen table. It’s mourning every jumper you’ve shrunk in the dryer. It’s seeing your ancestors in your golden-framed mirror and feeling them smile at how far you’ve come.
Getting dressed is a crisis. But it’s also a love letter.
To the versions of yourself you’ve been.
To the ones you’re becoming.
And to the girl who, even now, is still figuring it out.
It’s a gift too—a quiet, daily ritual of reinvention. A mirror-side moment that whispers, You get to try again today. It’s art that moves with you. That sits beside you in lectures and dances with you in the kitchen and holds you when you cry in public toilets.
So romanticise it.
Romanticise brushing your hair like you’re in a 19th-century novel. Pick your earrings like you’re choosing your sword. Try the outfit that’s been sitting in your saved folder for months. Play dress-up. Wear your favourite lipstick to the supermarket. Put on the silly hat. Wear the skirt that swishes. Layer the ridiculous jacket with pride. Try on the version of you you’ve been too scared to be.
Even if it’s just in your room. Even if no one sees it. Even if it’s just to walk to class or cry on the bus or pick up bread from the dairy. Because you’ll see it. You’ll feel it. And maybe that’s enough.
Don’t wait for the party.
Dress like you’re the main character in the life you already have.
And if all else fails?
Fuck it.