Inside My Closet: Notes on Style and Becoming

Inside a New York Artist’s Closet

My wardrobe is the place I go when I need to find myself again. When I need reinvention, I look for confidence in silk blouses and leather skirts. It’s where I go to feel grounded. To feel seen. To dress the part of the woman I want to be, even before I fully meet her in real life.

My wardrobe is more than a closet — it’s a personal archive, curated over years of reinvention, heartbreak, healing, and becoming. In its hodgepodge of textures, colors, and fabrics, I catch glimpses of the woman I want to be: the one who loves herself no matter what.

I live in a Hudson Valley, New York apartment with minimal storage, yet my closet is always full — stuffed with thrifted designer dresses, denim in every cut that flatters my figure, a growing leather bag collection, and a colorful array of button-downs, most of them cotton, some borrowed from the men’s section at Goodwill.

My relationship with style began in my late 20s. Before then, I used to think personal style was something you were born with, reserved for girls cooler than me — girls who just knew. Girls who were never caught off guard, who owned rooms in clothes that skimmed their figures perfectly, commanding attention in heels that clicked in rhythm with the sway of their hips.

I used to have bad style but this changed in March 2022, when I sold two paintings through a gallery and used the proceeds to buy a pair of Free People Float On flares. They were the most I’d ever spent on jeans, and trying them on felt like stepping into a version of myself I was finally ready to claim.

The Free People Float On Flares, Spring 2022

Those jeans marked the beginning of my style evolution. I started leaning into a bohemian aesthetic — less flower crowns, more edge. The shift came after I met a band in Asheville in 2021 while wandering the city one night. I’d gone out to shoot street photos and ended up inside a club hosting a wild weekly funk jam, surrounded by a crowd that looked like it had walked straight out of 1974.

Like all good stories, it started with a boy. That night, I met a guitarist with copper mutton chops, oversized glasses, and a silky satin button-down tucked into bell bottoms, the top buttons undone to reveal a sliver of curly chest hair. He introduced me to his bandmates: a woman with raven hair and kohl-rimmed eyes, a mischievous grin always playing on her lips as she smoked cigarettes with an air of mystery, and her boyfriend in bell bottoms so tight they seemed to defy physics.

They weren’t just stylish — they were magnetic. Effortless. Unbothered by time. I was most drawn to their fashion: 70s chic and plaid, lots of plaid.

We all quickly became friends. It was intense and thrilling, but ultimately shortlived. They took me under their wing, even floating the idea of making me their band photographer. For a few weeks, I followed them around, capturing flashes of stage lights and after-hours electricity. That fleeting friendship shaped something in me. I didn’t know how to name it then. Now, I call it style inspiration.

Since then, my wardrobe has become a reflection of moments like that—of strangers who left an imprint, nights I can still feel, and moods I want to inhabit. My style didn’t arrive all at once. It came in waves: through impulse buys and quiet thrift store miracles, through heartbreak and personal glow-ups. Through dressing up, even when I felt invisible.

I don’t dress like a traditional bohemian. But I live by its spirit—authenticity above all. My closet is full of contradictions: classic cuts and gothic ruffles, silk wrap dresses and bell sleeves reminiscent of Stevie Nicks and disco nights at Studio 54, outfits bold enough to roar when my social anxiety keeps me quiet.

This lookbook is more than a collection of clothes. It’s a visual diary of personal evolution. Some pieces remind me of who I used to be. Others are previews of who I’m becoming. Together, they tell a story that’s still being written—but the plot is getting good.

The Soft Luxury Power Look for a Grown-Woman Wardrobe

As a music photographer, fashion became an integral part of how I moved through the world. The decisive moment mattered, yes—but so did the shoes I was wearing to capture it. I learned to balance in heels while twisting my body at the foot of the stage, holding my breath for the perfect angle, counting the beats to the song in order to time the shot. Style wasn’t separate from the work. It was part of the performance.

In this new era of me—where I’ve traded late night funk jams for quiet mornings writing for my blog. My current fashion choices represents the new person I’m becoming. This new version of me is as strong as my eyeliner, facing her demons and living to tell about it. Since quitting music photography in 2023, I’ve learned a lot about myself and this blog is the voice I’m learning to recapture after losing it to a toxic relationship, the spotlight that ended up highlighting every flaw, and the fickle applause from people I thought were my friends.

Lately, I’ve felt a pull to bring fashion back into my daily life, even if I’m not going anywhere, even if it’s just Sunday dinner at my aunt and uncle’s. Now that I’m 30, I’ve turned my focus forward—to becoming a version of myself I can recognize and love again. I want to believe I’m worthy of love again. Not for performing, but who I truly am.

This outfit reflects the woman I’m becoming — older, wiser, more sure of herself. Moving forward with unshakable vision, her heart and mind aligned.

The leather pencil skirt is genuine leather from the 1980s that I found for six dollars at Goodwill. I love pencil skirts. They are classic, timeless, and universally flattering, accentuating curves without asking for attention. This one carries a restrained elegance — structured, simple yet elegant.

I paired it with a crisp white vintage Body by Victoria’s Secret bodysuit, also thrifted. It softens the edge of the leather and brings sophistication to the look.

I like to dress with intention before I walk into it. I already know the version of myself who wears something like this. She’s confident and self-possessed, soft yet ambitious, chasing her dreams with tenacity and grace. She dresses like she means every step she takes. She doesn’t shrink herself to make others comfortable. Her clothes reflect a woman who has grown out of dressing to impress and into dressing with purpose.

I’m not in my twenties anymore. I don’t want to look older — I just want to look like a woman who knows who she is, and isn’t afraid of it.

The Dream Girl Dress with a Vintage Twist

I had spent years building my wardrobe—curating pieces with care so I could enter my 30s as a more stylish, intentional version of myself. But in the fall of 2024, everything fell apart. Depression hit hard and nearly swallowed me whole. There was financial stress, health issues, and burnout that ultimately pulled me under until I started climbing out of the hole in Feburary 2025. During that dark time, I stopped taking care of myself. Stopped showering regularly. Stopped dressing up. The outfits I once felt so good in were replaced by tattered jeans and oversized, paint-stained button-downs that hadn’t been washed in weeks. I wouldn’t even leave the house for weeks at a time.

That softness I once led with—that quiet, feminine energy that I learned to exude—was replaced by something hardened and unrecognizable. Depression kicked my butt and left me feeling like a stranger in my own skin.

This dress became my comeback.

I first discovered Réalisation Par in February 2023. Their filmy, almost dreamlike aesthetic pulled me in instantly—supermodels like Bella Hadid and Emily Ratajkowski wore the brand, but it the pictures on their website that ultimately drew me in. All sun-drenched film grain and silk mini dresses caught mid-twirl, hems skimming golden skin at golden hour. The models weren’t just models—they were “dream girls.” It was fantasy made wearable. And I wanted in.

Their dresses are 100% silk, luxurious albeit a little thin. They are breathable and light with patterns that feel feminine without trying too hard.

I eventually found The Valentina—a navy silk wrap dress with a bold daisy print and soft ruffles that I call my Sharon Tate dress. It feels like something she would’ve worn on a summer afternoon in the Hollywood Hills in the 1960s—feminine, flirty, trendy yet timeless. I love the way it wraps around my body, skimming my curves and cinching at the waist. The ruffles add movement, like it’s meant for dancing barefoot in someone’s kitchen to vinyl records. It’s one those pieces that’ll makes you feel beautiful without much effort.

Réalisation Par dresses are expensive, and I don’t think they’re worth full price, so I hunted it down on TheRealReal and found it for $50 plus shipping.

Now that I’m doing better, I want to reclaim the woman I was becoming before the darkness took hold—but not out of nostalgia. Out of intention. I want to bring back the softness, the care, the feminine ritual that used to make me feel like me. This dress helps me do that.

Gothic Romance with a Playful Bohemian Luxe Edge

This outfit reminds me of that time in my life. My depression hasn’t fully lifted—despite going to the gym regularly, rediscovering my hobbies, and building habits to support my emotional well-being. The sadness still clings to me like humidity on bare skin—always there, lingering at the edges, even when the sun comes out.

I am an incredibly emotional woman, and expressing myself through fashion has helped me make sense of the turmoil that still stirs beneath the surface.

This ensemble is from Free People, the epitome of cool-girl bohemian fashion—with a hint of rebellion stitched into every ruffle, like something a modern-day Stevie Nicks might wear to a downtown dive bar. I bought the black maxi blouse with gothic-inspired ruffles before I met my ex-boyfriend, and I fell in love with it instantly. Middle school me—the one who played Linkin Park and pop punk on repeat—would have died seeing me in it.

It became a regular during my mourning period. And it still makes appearances every fall, especially when I want to channel a dark academia aesthetic meets Connecticut prep school fashion vibe—structured, moody, romantic.

The magenta slip dress is also from Free People. I first spotted it on a mannequin at the Belk in the Asheville Mall and knew immediately I needed it. It wasn’t cheap, but it’s been one of the most versatile wardrobe staples in my closet. I wear it on its own or layered under blouses, depending on the mood.

Some days, I style it like I’ve walked off a Vivienne Westwood runway—layered with my ivory lace blouse, cinched with my Palm Angels belt, and finished with the iconic triple pearl choker. Other times, like here, I lean into gothic romance.

I may still be healing, but in this outfit, I don’t feel broken. I feel like a woman who’s learning to carry her past with elegance—and rewriting the narrative one look at a time.

Reflecting on My Personal Style Journey: How Dressing Up Helped Me Reclaim Confidence and Identity

I believe what we wear says something about who we are—or who we’re becoming. Fashion is more than clothes. It’s therapy. It’s healing. It’s what we reach for when we have something to say.

These days, I try not to dress for approval or attention. I dress to feel like myself again—the woman I fell in love with during my music photography years, only now softer, wiser, more grounded. I dress up to show up with intention, even if it’s just in my living room.

This lookbook isn’t just a celebration of clothes—it’s a quiet reclamation. Of voice. Of identity. Of the kind of beauty that doesn’t ask for permission.

I may still be in the process of becoming, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m walking toward myself. I’m beginning to see myself in a new light—even when that light is dim. And I’m making the journey in outfits that finally feel like mine.