Making ‘little me’ proud.

Do you ever wake up one night and think about that bra that went missing? The rad old t you stole from that guy in your early 20’s? The panties you somehow forgot somewhere? The one earring you lost? Or what about the clothes you threw away cause it just “wasn’t you anymore”. And now you’re kicking yourself thinking of the pieces that you would love now? Cause fuck ~ me too. Just the thought of how perfectly aligned those pieces are for me right now, makes me my eye twitch.

Style has always been such a big thing for me. I always wanted to express myself through my clothes. Not in a shallow way ~ in a language way. It was how i spoke, it was the main part of my persona. It was how i told people who i was, before i could fully claim it for myself.

Even as a little girl, i wasn’t dressing for practicality ~ i was dressing for the drama. I wanted the glitter, the bell sleeves, the boots and the long flowing skirts. I’d walk through the house like i was on a main stage at a concert, pretending i was a pop princess ~ not gonna lie, still do. I was a Bratz girl to my core. Give me the platform boots, lip gloss, and a fake fur moment and i was her. But i did always loved the romantic ballerina faerie aesthetic from my Barbie dolls. They always appealed to the softer side of me. The side im starting to honour now as a woman. My dad and i always loved putting together my outfits for school discos, fancy dinners, or just the weekly visit down the club. My dad was and still is my go to for anything fashion.

But somewhere along the way, that confidence got chipped. I still cared about style ~ but it stopped feeling like it belonged to me.

I used to think i was expressing myself through my clothes ~ but really, i was just learning how to change my skin to fit in with the group i wanted to hang with, the boy i wanted to date or the Pinterest boards i thought i should live up to. And maybe that’s okay. We all start somewhere.

But what about all the versions of ourselves we leave behind? I mean, yes…some should definitely stayed buried. But the more we cringe at ourselves, the more we forget that, those cringey versions of me, were trying. She was learning. I was doing the best i could, with what i thought i had.

And honestly? That deserves softness, not shame.

For so long, it felt like everyone had an opinion on how i should look.

“Wear that dress more”

“I like you better blonde”

“That dress is too young for you.”

ugh…it’s all just so fucking confusing. Can we all just as a society agree to stop commenting on young women and their appearance? ~ maybe we really fuck with ourselves that day. And as a young naive girl just trying to get through her day, i listened. Because when your still building who you are, it’s easier to let someone else take over. And yes, sometimes i loved how i looked ~ but deep down, i always knew it wasn’t me.

And then came the relationships. God, It’s almost embarrassing to think about the things i bought because a boy liked it. I can’t even give it any credence, but her in the bin immediately.

Somewhere in my early twenties, i stopped asking, “What will they think if i wear this?” And started asking “What do i want to wear?”

Reclaiming my personal style has been like aligning with a version of me that always existed ~ i just needed to remember her. She was never gone, she had just been buried under other people’s preferences, softened by approval seeking, blurred by years of “does this look okay?”

But she was always there ~ in the way i paused at the gorgeous dress in the window, in the way my eyes lit up at the intricate lace detailings on a lingerie set or a pair of shoes that made me stop in my tracks.

Now, every outfit is a little reclamation, for her. The little me that would be in absolute awe of my life now. Every colour i reach for, every fabric i drape over my body ~ it’s a way of saying: I see you and i’m listening now.

My husband helped, in his own way. Not because he styled me or gave me his advice ~ but because he genuinely didn’t care what i wore. He appreciates and loves me; for me. He loves me in my track pants and oversized tees, my deeply feminine side and with nothing on. And that gave me the space to start choosing for me. Finding the confidence to actually love yourself and feel good in what you wear.

I’m not dressing to be desired anymore.

I’m not dressing to feel like me.

And that’s the hottest thing i’ve ever worn.

“Sorry for being so sexy, idk what’s wrong with me.”

Always, in the glow of Honey and Moonlight

xx

Mon