Fashion is an integral part of my life. Paychecks vanish to boots and bags, my closet is a chaotic mess and piles of Vogue take up space on every countertop in my room. Maybe not for the mess of my closet, but definitely for my love of its contents, Carrie Bradshaw takes the blame. I lose time thinking about Carrie’s iconic looks: the Vivienne Westwood pinstriped suit, the infamous fur coat, the John Galliano for Christian Dior newspaper dress, the blue satin Manolo Blahnik pumps complete with a crystal buckle. The catalogue is never-ending. I lose time curating my own amalgamation built with the clothes already in my possession, and I lose time exploring my sense of identity as can only be conveyed through the art of dressing. 

Carrie wears unconventional clothes and makes her style personable almost to a fault — but not quite — and for that, she is my greatest inspiration. Carrie’s wardrobe is more than just timeless fashion and expensive footwear, Manolo’s and Jimmy Choo’s; it is therapy. And in many ways, so is my wardrobe — the therapy aspect more than designer shoes. I was taught to express what I want in relationships, jobs and life by a fictional woman with voluminous curls and heels too high for her budget. The defiance in her personal style could only be rivaled by her defiance of the standards and expectations thrust upon her by others. Carrie takes the confidence from her closet and uses it in other aspects of her life. 

Like my inspiration, my closet acts as a reflection of my mind in both my stylistic choices as indicative of how I choose to present myself as well as the tangible representation of the chaos that often clutters my mental space. My hobbies, interests and creativity hang and pile on the floor of my tiny walk-in — which does not quite have room for everything, but I make it work. 

The weight of my past and the excitement of my future is seen within this small space, shown by garments like my worn Frye boots or the neglected denim vest I promised myself I would wear, but have yet to make good on my word. My outfits speak for me when I cannot speak for myself: a sweatsuit three sizes too big when I’m feeling down or my cardigan and mini skirt when I am feeling frisky. My closet allows me to reevaluate myself in the same way one might do by creating a mood board or even writing a song. My closet is not just a storage space that holds clothes, shoes and accessories; it is an archive of memories. My clothes, even the ones gathering dust, reflect a version of myself I am still exploring or a feeling I have not yet put into words. Like Carrie, I learned that fashion is not just a way to show off my minimum wage earnings, but instead, a way to claim self-confidence and explore my creativity.

Fashion helped me learn to move through uncertainty with conviction and to express feelings that do not always make their way into conversation. I do not always get it right, and my closet is proof of that. But in each aspect of chaos in my wardrobe, there is a clarity that my imperfections are a part of the process. While I may not be strutting through Manhattan in Manolo’s, I could not help but wonder: Is it not the designer labels of these jackets and heels but the labels I give myself that deserve true celebration?