“Style is a way to say who you are without speaking.” ~Rachel Zoe
I wasn’t going to find myself.
One day I looked in the mirror and thought, “Wait, when did you stop looking like me?”
It was after a breakup – the kind that leaves you with a mist and emotionally rooted thing that tries to understand where you lost yourself.
So I was standing in my bedroom, wearing something functional and outdoors.
There’s nothing wrong with the cargo pants and fleece. If that’s your style, it’s beautiful.
But I am a woman who grew up in Paris. I love the texture, shape and color.
And I couldn’t remember the last time I was dressed in the way that made me feel alive.
The moment was not dramatic. But it stuck like a pebble in my shoes, like a quiet perception that I couldn’t surprise.
At first I didn’t know what to do. So I’m just starting to realize it. What I was wearing. What I reached out. What I missed.
Something that felt like a small step closer to me, and something that felt like someone else (no one else).
And slowly, meaningless, I began to find my way.
It’s not journaling. It’s not through treatment. Through style.
I didn’t understand that at the time, but I was beginning to go home to myself. One outfit at a time.
I always felt like a cultural mosaic. In theory, it’s beautifully complex, but it’s difficult to hold one piece.
India by heritage. The roots of the East African family. I grew up in four countries. It has a mix of accents, traditions, languages and ways of looking at the world.
And for a long time I didn’t know who was in it.
In some circles, I was a Westerner. In others I felt that it was too brown. Even within my community, I often felt different… not traditional.
I’m skilled at changing shapes. I swayed where I could and adjusted what I found inconvenient. Quietly gathering contradictions, I didn’t know how to resolve them.
Of course, I tried it. I read the book. I attended the workshop. I hired a coach. I journaled, meditated, got treated, and “mantraded” myself until I was half-death. I’ve also become a coach.
Most of them helped in their own unique ways.
But the strangest, most honest kind of healing did not occur in coaching sessions or yoga mats. It happened in my closet.
It started quietly. One night I realized I was choosing clothes for the next day… so I’m not impressed. Do not curate the appearance. To feel a little more like myself. And for some reason, it felt good. kind. It’s encouraging.
So I did it again the next night. And the next.
In the end, it became a ritual. I’ll just slow it down long enough to check in myself.
I started asking the following questions:
What part of me would you like to show up tomorrow? What kind of feelings do I want to bring to that day? Which pieces make me feel lively?
Then I chose clothes that reflected what answers came.
Sometimes it means bold colours and structured lines.
Sometimes it meant soft, covered fabric.
Sometimes it meant a mix of things that didn’t “go,” but somehow felt like a true version of me.
Just as he lets the paradox live on his body, not in his mind.
And by doing that, I actually wore my contradictions and wrapped them in silk, denim and threads, and started to reconcile with them. And I began to stop looking at them as flaws that explain them or hide them and start to show them as richness. Texture. It is proof that life was deeply alive.
Instead of trying to resolve tension, I make it beautiful. I belong to it. And, strangely enough, it softened something in me.
“Pick a side, become clearer and confusing,” he whispered quietly.
I began to believe that I could hold a crowd.
When I slipped into those clothes in the morning, it wasn’t just about dressing. It was an act of allowing it. I’ll make myself visible. To make up for space. It’s complicated, contradictory, and still worthy of beauty. Quiet yes to the charge of who I am.
What surprised me the most was how I started to feel.
Could something outside (something superficially, like clothing) be able to chase me inside out the elusive confidence I have spent years?
Maybe it wasn’t about clothes. Maybe it was about permission.
Can be seen. Feel beautiful in your own words. To tell the truth about who I am, not words, but fabric, colour and silhouette.
Maybe it was to give my body the opportunity to talk and learn how to listen.
Every night I still take a few minutes and choose what to wear the next day. It’s not because I’m trying to project something. But that’s because it helps me to connect to something.
It’s one of the only parts of my day. A soft pause. The moment it lands.
Clothing has become a kind of mirror. And that dressing moment came to form meditation. It’s not the kind you sit on. The kind I remember. Type to reconnect.
I thought they were just playing around with the fabric and silhouette. But I actually returned to my home.
I’ve heard that I felt good. Let go of things that weren’t. It creates space for multiple parts of me to coexist.
That’s something I didn’t expect. As normal as choosing clothes – what we all have to do anyway – could be a love letter to yourself. If you let it do.
About Neilamita
Nayla Mitha helps women build a career that feels like home. Her tools are designed to teach you how to excel while remaining true to yourself while making your professional journey more balanced, fulfilling and successful. Download one of her free resources for heart-centered women here and connect with her on Instagram here.
