Imagine you refresh your home page on literally any social media app. Immediately you’re bombarded by another influx of hundreds of videos telling you how to live. How to dress. How to do your makeup. How to act, how to talk, how to follow a specific aesthetic. Buzzwords are thrown around — classy, chic, cool girl — but none of them truly mean anything at all. I am not the first person to fall into this trap, and I know I certainly won’t be the last.
I was in my early teenage years when I began cultivating a personal style. I was unashamed of my ridiculous fashion sense — cutting apart old clothes to turn them into something new, weird color combinations in my clothing choices, skinny jeans and often badly done makeup to top it all off (exaggerated eyeliner really had its moment in my life). At 15, I had just shaved my head for a pediatric cancer charity, which left me feeling like an unpainted canvas. This experience, the “weird phase” of my childhood, is what taught me how to express myself.
Throughout the entirety of my middling years, there was one key thing: I didn’t stick to just one style. I loved casual streetwear as well as “dark academia” outfits. I liked doing colorful, glittery makeup while wearing what is described as “grunge.” My personality didn’t stagnate, so how could my style?
A TikTok comment section would beg to differ. One of the most curious parts was the way people discussed personal style, as if it was the first thing people judged about you. Videos proclaimed that you must “dress how you want to be perceived,” and that burrowed its way into my mind. This is the first time I felt insecure about my clothes — how did people view me based on what I wore? The honest answer: They probably thought I was a major dork.
Instead of building my personal style based on what I liked, I began to focus on how people would see me. Something else I quickly learned: You can’t be two things at the same time. People, including myself, felt that to have a cohesive, definitive style, they had to pick one thing, one “aesthetic.” I tried to be a “clean girl,” leaving behind color for more neutral tones. Then, I had a long “dark academia” phase, feeling like purchasing something out of the realm of browns and plaid would be a crime.
Trying on these aesthetics was easy. If you found someone who was perceived the way you wanted to be perceived, you could have all of their clothes in the click of a few buttons. Celebrities shared their skin care and makeup routines and we hit purchase without a second thought. Whether or not these products would work for our unique skin type was irrelevant. Aesthetics have been commodified in a similar way; I was lured into the metaphorical trap. The accessibility that the internet provides means that we spend less time thinking about our purchases and whether we truly like what we are buying. Instead, we ask ourselves: Will other people like what I’m buying?
I always thought the phrase “be yourself” was so stupid. Obviously, you’re being yourself, who else could you be? With the rise of TikTok aesthetics, I’ve realized that in actuality, we all are desperate to be absolutely anyone else. The boxes have been created. Go choose one.
For the cost of a few hundred dollars and an obscenely high screentime, you have had the pleasure of saying goodbye to your individuality.
When my shopping cart began to look the same as everyone else’s, I realized an aesthetic isn’t distinctive if we all dress the same. For the past few years, I have incrementally increased the social media restrictions on my phone. I still enjoy these apps and use them for inspiration in various ways. However, I will not allow them to define the way I live my life.
I began to go to the store without an “aesthetic” in mind, instead buying what feels right, what’s practical, what I find fun. I started wearing colors again and didn’t care when I wasn’t wearing what was trending at the time. I focused on longevity and filling my closet with pieces that will stay with me. I also let myself grow into my body type, picking items that worked for me rather than trying to fit into an already existing archetype (at 5-feet tall, I don’t always have many options). Without the noise of social media, trends lost their meaning. Sometimes, I’m tempted to make a purchase. Then I see the giant bag of scrunchies I bought when they were popular in 2020 still sitting at the bottom of my closet, collecting dust. They remind me that maybe I should consider whether this trend will still be cute in a month.
This isn’t to say that the online fashion space doesn’t have its merits. People post their outfits and I learn how to turn seemingly simple clothes into full, cohesive outfits. I develop my likes and dislikes without having to spend money on the clothes themselves. And, by taking inspiration from people, I discovered that accessorizing is my favorite part of it all. But I can do all of this without losing myself.
A few weeks ago, my friend came to visit me. Though we grew up together, our styles have always been different. She hadn’t brought perfume with her on the trip and asked to borrow one of mine for the day. I gestured toward the collection of bottles on my dresser, telling her to help herself. Slightly embarrassed, I added that I thought she wouldn’t like all of my perfumes. She looked at me and said, “They’re your perfumes. Why would I need to like them?”
People often refer to dressing up as “customizing your character,” a phrase which I find absolutely adorable. I’d like to remember the significance of the word “custom” and how ridiculous it would be if millions of people tried so hard to be different that they all actually ended up exactly the same. I’ve said goodbye to my individuality far too many times; this time, I think I’d like to hold onto it.
Books Beat Editor Archisha Pathak can be reached at archpath@umich.edu.
