I like people who dress like themselves.
Not like the internet told them to. Not like the trending reels that slot you into French girl chic, Italian girl elegance, or the ever-so-bland “clean girl aesthetic.” I like the people who find joy in clothes who wear gingham and stripes together without asking permission. Who wear scarves in the summer and boots with dresses just because they felt like it. Who don’t care about whether their outfit looks “expensive” or “aesthetic” or “timeless” but whether it feels like them.
I’m drawn to people who play. Who treat getting dressed as a kind of morning ritual not for anyone else’s gaze, but for their own pleasure. I love it when someone walks into a room and you can tell they’ve had fun putting themselves together. Not because it’s polished, but because it’s honest.
There’s a special kind of courage in not curating yourself for the algorithm. In wearing color even when neutrals are in. In not erasing the quirks in your style just to fit into a Pinterest mood board.
Fashion, to me, has never been about following the rules. It’s been about joy. About memory. About storytelling. The way a shirt reminds you of a day in college. The way a ring smells faintly of your grandmother’s perfume. The way a clashing color palette somehow becomes your signature.
Eclectic dressers remind me that we are not trends. We are timelines. And every outfit we put on can be a marker of something deeply personal, something deeply ours.
So here’s to the ones who mismatch with grace. Who wear prints that don’t go but somehow do. Who thrift. Who repurpose. Who ignore what’s “in” and create what feels right. Here’s to the walking collages, the patchwork souls, the unexpected pairings.
May we always have the courage to wear our joy on our sleeves even if it comes with stripes and gingham and no apology.
