In My Own Clothes By Veronique Lhuillier

By Veronique Lhuillier

My childhood bedroom hasn’t changed since I was six years old. The walls are still splashed with a faded pink wash; the white horse painted behind my bed still greets me every time I walk in. The little girl I once was thought she’d never have enough clothes to fill her closet. Here I am, sixteen years later, barely able to fit my socks in the sock drawer. 

That closet has seen me grow through every phase. The shoe shelf that used to hold jelly shoes and Mary Janes now holds kitten heels and platform sneakers. Somewhere in between those two shelves was a girl who spent years dressing like someone else without even realizing it.

In my early teenage years, I was hyperfocused on finding my style. I grew up wearing my older sister’s hand-me-downs, so I never had to think too much about clothes. Then TikTok came around, and everyone was posting outfit checks and hauls and style guides, and all of a sudden I was hyperfocused on finding my own style. I decided that I wasn’t going to dress like my sister anymore; I was going to wear clothes I actually liked. But nobody warns you that the shelf doesn’t skip straight from jellies to platforms. In between, there were years of cheesy graphic tees, a phase where I only wore food-inspired earrings, and at least one summer I’d rather not discuss involving jeggings. I'm twenty-two, and I still don't think I've arrived anywhere. And that might be the point.

In 2020, I went all in on Y2K maximalism. I wore butterfly clips, gummy bear earrings, and bright pink heart tops. It was an aesthetic I was chasing straight out of ITZY’s music videos and Pinterest boards. More than the clothes themselves, it was about wanting to look like I belonged to the whole internet’s worth of people who’d already decided what looked good. I bought pieces I didn’t actually like because they were in style. Looking back, that phase was the first time I noticed the difference between dressing for a picture and dressing for myself.

I don’t think I had a style back then, to be honest. In 2020, half of my wardrobe was picked out by my mom, and the other half, I was choosing from a TikTok-inspired Pinterest board, hoping something would stick. Neither one was truly mine. It would take moving to Boston three years later, living on my own for the first time and curating my closet for myself, to find out what actually fit. I wasn’t picking an aesthetic off a feed anymore or wearing a top because my friend had it. I was noticing what I packed, what I let go of, and what I refused to give up even in the cold. That’s when I think my style actually started: with distance and with finally taking advantage of my autonomy.

My personal style can’t be narrowed down to a singular label. I like to think of myself as a shapeshifter. I live between two polar, quite literally, opposite climates. In my homeland of Manila, I favor colorful linens and resortwear. You’ll never see me wearing jeans. Back in Boston, I default to chic basics and warm sweaters. I used to think that made me inconsistent, but now I think it just means I was never going to be a shelf with one shoe on it.