Somewhere between having my first child and nearly turning 40, I kind of lost my personal style. Not completely lost it. More like misplaced it, the way I misplace my car keys or phone. I probably put it down somewhere while doing seventeen other things and then forgot it existed.
And now, nearly six years later, I’ve started paying attention to what I actually like again.
Turns out, I love colors. Bright colors. Ridiculously bright colors. Especially in my home decor. Give me greens, purples, pinks, and teals. I want my house to look like a whimsical woodland fairy moved in and immediately developed an unhealthy relationship with Pinterest.
I even wore two colors together in an outfit the other day, and that felt wild. Normally, I wear at least one black or beige item to tone things down. You know, to reassure the general public that I’m a responsible adult.
But two colors? At the same time?
Watch out, world. This bitch is getting adventurous.
The Corporate Hottie Years
There was a time in my twenties when I genuinely felt like I had a personal style.
Picture early 2000s business casual, but make it clubwear.
I don’t know exactly what aesthetic category that falls under, but imagine someone who could attend a staff meeting at 4 p.m. and be ordering vodka cranberries at 9 without changing her outfit.
That was the vibe.
Slim-fitting sweater dress? Sign me up. High-heels that made your feet lose their will to exist? Hell yeah. Even my first years teaching were done in heels.
And I loved it. I felt attractive. I felt confident. I felt like myself.
Of course, that version of myself probably wouldn’t be caught dead in the outfit I’m wearing right now: leggings, sparkly Hey Dudes, a trail race T-shirt, and an oversized flannel.
But here’s the thing.
I feel fucking fantastic.
Not because I’m dressed up. Not because my outfit is particularly fashionable. But because I’m comfortable, I like what I’m wearing, and I feel like me.
Apparently, I’ve evolved from corporate hottie to woodland witch who occasionally runs through the mountains for fun.
Honestly, I’m not mad about it.
Somewhere Along the Way, I Stopped Giving a Shit
When I got pregnant with my first son, something shifted.
Getting dressed stopped being about expressing myself and started being about finding something clean that fit.
And then I had another baby.
If my personal style was misplaced after the first child, it was officially declared missing after the second. Presumed dead. No search party organized because everyone was too fucking tired.
I didn’t necessarily stop wanting to look good. I just didn’t have the mental energy to figure out what that even meant anymore.
And as someone with ADHD, I have a limited number of executive-functioning spoons available on any given day. Between teaching, parenting, remembering approximately nine million things, and trying to keep everyone alive, deciding whether an outfit was cute didn’t exactly make the priority list.
But something else happened, too.
I became increasingly critical of my body.
I focused on the weight I’d gained, the clothes that didn’t fit, and all the ways my body looked different from what it had been in my twenties.
Somewhere along the way, I started treating personal style like something I could have again once I lost weight.
As though I needed to earn the right to wear cute clothes.
Which, when I actually stop and think about it, is pretty ridiculous.
Meanwhile, My Body Was Out Doing Cool Shit
Here’s where things have started changing.
I’m still not completely comfortable with my body. I still have days when I look in the mirror and think, What the actual fuck?
But I’ve also started recognizing something.
My body is doing some pretty incredible things.
Recently, I completed a trail half marathon in the mountains. Five miles of climbing, followed by a stretch of meadow that apparently existed solely to test my will to live.
A few weeks later, I participated in a six-hour trail-running event where I completed four 5K loops in increasingly ridiculous heat.
Was I fast? Absolutely not.
Was I out there doing something that a lot of people wouldn’t even consider attempting?
Hell yes.
And I did all of that in the same body I’ve spent so much time criticizing.
Turns out, while I’ve been busy worrying about what my body looks like, it’s been busy carrying me up mountains.
That’s a pretty cool thing to realize.
I’m not suddenly going to pretend I love every inch of myself. I don’t. I still have goals, and I still want to make changes.
But I’m starting to understand that I don’t have to wait until I reach some imaginary finish line to feel good about myself.
I can want to lose weight AND buy the cute clothes.
I can have a belly AND be a runner.
I can wear sparkly shoes AND be a grown-ass woman with a mortgage.
These things are not mutually exclusive.
Apparently, My Personal Style Is an ADHD Side Quest
One thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I don’t necessarily fit into one aesthetic.
Some days I want to look like a woodland fairy. Other days I’m giving exhausted elementary school teacher who survived purely on caffeine and spite.
Sometimes I want bright, whimsical colors. Sometimes I want an oversized flannel and leggings.
And occasionally, I see a piece of furniture and immediately start imagining what color I could paint it, despite having several unfinished projects already waiting for me at home.
My ADHD brain doesn’t particularly care about having a cohesive aesthetic.
It sees something interesting and says, Ooooh, we like that now.
And for a long time, I think I interpreted that as not really knowing who I was.
But maybe personal style doesn’t have to be one specific look.
Maybe it’s just a collection of things that make me happy.
Bright colors. Comfortable clothes. Sparkly shoes. Green nails. Plants. Weird little thrift-store finds. Furniture that probably didn’t need to be painted but absolutely looks better now.
A little chaotic? Sure.
But also very, very me.
Almost 39, and Finally Figuring It Out
I don’t think I’m trying to become the woman I was in my twenties again.
I liked her. She had great outfits and probably significantly fewer responsibilities.
But I also really like the woman I’m becoming.
She’s a little more relaxed. A lot more colorful. She runs ridiculous distances through the mountains and gets excited about finding a piece of furniture on the side of the road.
She’s still figuring out how to feel comfortable in her body.
She’s still learning how to make room for herself alongside all the other roles she fills.
And apparently, she’s entering her green era.
Maybe finding my personal style isn’t really about clothes at all.
Maybe it’s about finally giving myself permission to like what I like without worrying so much about whether it’s flattering, fashionable, age-appropriate, or what someone else thinks.
Maybe it’s about realizing that I don’t need to become a different version of myself to deserve feeling good.
I just need to start paying attention to the version of myself who’s already here.
So here I am. Almost 39. Wearing sparkly shoes and painting things green.
Soft heart. Loud colors. Questionable number of ongoing projects.
Honestly, I think that sums it up pretty fucking well.
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