Stitching Confidence

When I was twelve, I hated mirrors.

They reflected a girl I didn't understand—too tall, too quiet, too awkward in clothes that always felt like they belonged to someone else. While other girls wore crop tops and glitter sneakers, I wore oversized sweaters and jeans that never quite fit. My mother told me to be modest. My classmates told me to be invisible.

So, I tried.

I shrank into myself. I slouched. I wore colors that blended into walls and sat at the back of every classroom. I thought if I couldn’t be beautiful, I could at least be unnoticeable.

But what I didn’t realize then was that fashion wasn’t just about being noticed—it was about choosing how to be seen.

I stumbled upon this truth in a thrift store.

I was sixteen, dragged along by a friend looking for “aesthetic vintage stuff.” While she rummaged through racks, I wandered aimlessly until I found a coat—deep emerald green, velvet, cinched at the waist with brass buttons like something out of a Victorian novel. It was too dramatic, too bold, too not me—and I couldn’t stop staring at it.

Without thinking, I tried it on.

And something happened.

I didn’t transform. But I stood taller. My shoulders pulled back. The mirror didn’t feel cruel—it felt curious. The girl staring back wasn’t hiding. She was wearing something that made her feel powerful.

I didn’t buy the coat that day—I didn’t have the money—but I walked out of that store with something more valuable: the realization that fashion could be more than fabric.

It could be freedom.

I began to explore.

Not runway trends or influencer styles, but my own language of dressing. One that didn’t beg for attention but whispered self-respect. I wore bold prints on days I felt afraid, because they made me feel louder than my anxiety. I wore soft cashmere and silk when I needed gentleness. I wore structured blazers when I had to speak in public, as if the seams held me together.

And slowly, I stopped dressing to disappear. I started dressing to declare:

“I’m here. And I have every right to be.”

Of course, not everyone understood.

There were raised eyebrows when I showed up to school in flared pants and vintage boots. Snickers when I wore lipstick to class. Even my parents, especially my mother, asked me more than once:

“Why are you trying to stand out?”

But that wasn’t it.

I wasn’t dressing to stand out. I was dressing to belong to myself.

In a world where girls are constantly told what to wear—what’s too much, what’s too little, what’s ladylike, what’s professional—fashion became my quiet rebellion. My love letter to every girl who was ever told her body was a battleground.

College was when everything clicked.

Studying design and sociology, I found the intersection of beauty and identity fascinating. I learned about the politics of appearance, the unspoken codes of class and power sewn into fabric choices, the quiet feminism of wearing what you want—on your own terms.

I started a blog called Threaded Thoughts, where I posted outfits, yes, but also essays. On why red lipstick isn’t vanity—it’s defiance. On why modesty shouldn’t mean shame. On how beauty standards change, but confidence is always in style.

The blog grew.

Women—young and old—shared their own stories. A single mom who started wearing heels again after her divorce. A hijabi woman who combined traditional wear with bold patterns. A breast cancer survivor who found beauty again in scarves and statement earrings.

Each message reminded me: fashion is not shallow. It’s storytelling. It’s survival. It’s stitching yourself back together with color and thread.

Now, at 28, I run a boutique called Second Skin—an inclusive fashion space that focuses on empowerment over trends. We don’t sell size-zero fantasies or airbrushed lies. We sell stories—crafted in cotton, leather, lace, and linen.

When customers come in, we ask them one thing before they try anything on:

“How do you want to feel today?”

Not “what size are you” or “what’s your budget.”

Because once you know how you want to feel—strong, soft, bold, safe—you can dress the part. Fashion becomes emotional armor. Or poetry. Or protest.

And in those moments, mirrors don’t mock. They mirror back your worth.

Fashion didn’t change my life.

It gave me the tools to rebuild it.

To stop apologizing for my body.

To take up space—shoulders back, chin up, lips red.

To walk into a room and not shrink.

I don’t need clothes to define me anymore.

But I choose them because they reflect me.

The girl who once hid in oversized hoodies?

She still lives inside me.

But now, she wears whatever the hell she wants.

Because beauty isn’t about pleasing the world.

It’s about pleasing the girl in the mirror.

And finally, she’s smiling back.