I think my life can best be modeled as a bizarre fashion show; I close my eyes and picture increasingly taller versions of myself stalking clumsily down a catwalk in a bizarre assortment of outfits.

When I was younger, I didn’t much care about clothing. The four-year-old me stomping down the catwalk is pulled straight from one of my mother’s favorite stories, of the time I insisted that stripped autumnal-hued socks were the perfect complement to a long purple-and-white-flowered party dress. Although this fusion now makes me cringe, it is the quintessence of who I was as a child: headstrong, to the point of mulishness; so quirky I seemed inspired; and, above all, cherished.

As I transitioned from middle school, my lack of concern for my appearance did not fade. This next figure is the embodiment of the damage my year of schooling in Venezuela wrecked on any budding fashionista sensibilities: wearing dowdy maroon sweats and a shapeless polo shirt, she stumbles across the stage with the uncertain gait of someone ostracized from her own people by stunted Spanish and pasty skin.
My sense of couture did not improve in middle school. This next model is wearing a shirt that could easily fit her much larger father. Her bushy hair (reminiscent of the great Hermione Granger) is barely contained by a clunky headband with a garish print that clashes abominably with the spindly metallic frames shoved crookedly on her nose. Something is noticeably off about her. It might be a limp, or a crookedness to her shoulders, but she walks with the stride of someone whose jokes are not appreciated and who is on an ongoing quest for a t-shirt large enough to disappear into.

Right as it seemed my wardrobe was beyond repair, matters began to improve. The next model, although in a faded black dress and pumps too big for her, walks with enthusiasm. She doesn’t notice the twisted waistline of the dress or the frayed threads. Her mind is too full of the feel of the hem as it swishes around her ankles, the rush of happiness a single compliment can generate, and the excitement of having a true friend.

The models that follow sport an impressive range of outfits: short dresses, long dresses, sparkly skirts, violently purple pants, and tights with cats on them. Out of the eclectic assortment, there are some that I hold close to my heart.

There’s one figure limping down the runway in worn sneakers and a silver jacket, with a helmet and saber tucked under either arm. Despite the grimaces, her face glows with determination, as it seems unthinkable that she could fail while holding a sword.

The next model is attired entirely in black. Her face does not reflect the sobriety of her outfit, but instead excitement and satisfaction; the cello clasped in her hand gleams brightly, and the bow has been thoroughly rosined. The glorious sensation of hitting the final note in unison sparkles in her smile and her fulfillment in her monochromatic outfit.

The figure behind her is sporting a flowery dress, worn-to-death Converses, and a black blazer. Her expression is one of poorly disguised awe and intimidation. Glossy computers and shimmer glass are reflected in her wide eyes, but when she clutches the lapels of her blazer tightly, some of her composure returns; she rearranges the ID hanging around her neck, hitches the laptop bag higher up her shoulder, and steps forward with purpose.

I believe that sometimes confidence starts from the outside and works its way inward. I was pulled from my introverted world by a pretty dress and genuine friends, and I haven’t stopped growing. I’ve become a debater, fencer, cellist, nerd, scientist, stage manager, and kpop-lover, all the while using clothing to reflect these personalities. I can only wonder what items my closet will acquire next.