Fashion

There are mornings—like this one—when I stand barefoot in front of my wardrobe and feel her watching me: the woman I am still walking toward. She doesn’t rush me. She simply waits, soft and expectant, and I think of her when I choose my clothes because she deserves to be met with intention. Today, my hand hovers between the safe grey sweater and the cream silk blouse with its tiny mother-of-pearl buttons.

I choose the blouse—the one I once considered “too much” for an ordinary Wednesday. I button it slowly, one by one, like small quiet prayers whispering.
I see you. I’m still trying. I haven’t given up on you.

Yesterday, in a small sunlit café in San Francisco, a man I had never met before looked at me gently over his coffee and said, “You look like someone who has a lot of chapters still ahead of her.” I smiled, a little startled and not knowing how to answer him. How could a stranger see that in me—the sense that I am still unfolding, still becoming? I thanked him, walked out into the bright city light, and felt my eyes sting with unexpected tears.

It wasn’t because of what he said, but because it was true, and I’ve been thinking about that moment ever since.

Years ago, I loved a woman named Lavon. Do I still love her?

She was in her mid fifties and I was in my mid twenties. But the age difference never mattered to me; I loved her with a depth that felt timeless. She was everything I admired: impossibly elegant, the kind of woman who wore Chanel suits with ease and moved through the world wrapped in pearls and expensive perfumes that lingered like quiet confidence. She was refined in a way I felt I could never be—I was simpler, more casual, still figuring out who I was.

One afternoon, while we were still close, she looked at me with that gentle but firm gaze and said, “Charlotte, you have a beautiful spirit, but you dress like a girl who is afraid to be seen as a woman. Stop hiding in simplicity. Wear things that make you feel expensive on the inside. Choose fabrics that whisper instead of shout. One day you’ll understand that elegance is not about age—it’s about how you decide to carry yourself.”

Her words stayed with me long after she decided I was too young for her. Her rejection hurt more than I can describe, but her lesson on dressing never left. Even in the pain, she gave me a vision of a more polished, more graceful version of myself—one I am still quietly walking toward.

I have spent years buying clothes for a version of myself I didn’t fully believe in yet: the coat that felt too grown-up, the delicate gold earrings I wear when I need to feel anchored, and the soft red lipstick I keep in my bag like a secret.

Sometimes I dream about her—the woman I am becoming. In those dreams, she moves through rooms with a quiet confidence I still have to practice. She laughs more freely, writes without apology, and wears beautiful things not to prove anything, but because she finally feels worthy of them.

Sometimes she even smells like Lavon’s perfume.

Dressing has therefore become my daily act of faith. On the days when I feel small, lost, or too much in my head, I ask myself what she would wear today. I do this not because the clothes will magically fix me, but because choosing them with care is one of the kindest things I can do for the girl I used to be—and for the woman Lavon saw in me before I could see her myself.

In literature, women have always understood this. Elizabeth Bennet walks muddy fields in practical dresses but saves her finest muslin for evenings that matter. Joan Didion wears the same uniform of crisp shirts and dark glasses, as if armoring herself for the clarity her writing demands. Anaïs Nin moves between sensuous silks and stark minimalism, mirroring the many women she contained. Their clothes were never frivolous; they were an extension of their becoming—sometimes armor, sometimes permission, sometimes celebration.

There is a particular power in dressing for the self you are growing into rather than the self you currently are. It is an act of gentle self-parenting for the woman who trusts her own voice, the woman who no longer shrinks, and the woman who has made peace with her softness and her strength.

Often, the answer is simple: a well-cut blouse that makes me sit a little taller, trousers with a sharp crease that remind me of dignity, or a gold necklace that catches the light like a small promise around my throat. These are not dramatic gestures, but daily rituals of respect.

I have learned that the clothes we reach for on ordinary Tuesdays matter just as much as what we wear on special occasions—perhaps even more. Because it is in the ordinary days that we practice stepping into our becoming.

Of course, there is tension here between authenticity and aspiration, between dressing for comfort and dressing with intention. I have worn outfits that felt like costumes, but I have also worn outfits that slowly reshaped how I carried myself. The difference, I think, lies in honesty. Are these clothes an escape from myself, or a loving bridge toward myself?

The woman I am walking toward is softer than I expected. She laughs more easily, takes up space without apology, and wears gold at her ears while writing her most honest sentences in the quiet morning light. She no longer waits for the perfect moment to wear beautiful things because she understands that every ordinary day is part of the becoming.

So I dress for her. I don’t do it perfectly; some days I still choose the safe grey sweater. But more and more, I reach for the cream blouse with the delicate buttons. I fasten them slowly, one by one, sensually, like small affirmations, and when I catch my reflection, I smile at her—at us—with recognition.

There is something almost sacred in this refusal to wait until I feel ready or enough before I dress like the woman I sense inside me.

The stranger in the San Francisco café reminded me that we are always in motion, always mid-chapter, and maybe the way we dress is simply how we gently edit the next page.

I don’t always get it right. Some days I still hide in safe, comfortable things, and the gap between who I am and who I dream of becoming feels painfully wide. But every time I choose the cream blouse, and every time I fasten those delicate buttons, I am telling myself—and Lavon’s memory, and that future woman: