7/14/25

A 16-year-old version of me once sat in a high school classroom and heard a rant that would come to change my outlook on life. In a rare instance of forgetfulness, I cant recall the class itself, or even the words uttered before me - what I do remember is the impact that they had. A teacher, as they do, was teaching the class something vague about culture, or art, or history, and began speaking about "experience". They said that every person has a uniquely individualistic view of the world around them. Sensing the lack of applause and assumed "obviously" attitude from myself and my peers, they elaborated; every person, no matter how similar they may be to another, no matter how exact their experiences may overlap, one thing, one memory or thought can change every single thing about them. They may have grown up in the same state, gone to the same school, lived in the same home, even shared the same womb. They could be biologically identical, and yet one thing could set them and their voice apart from everyone else's in totality. 

I've written before about how puzzling the quantifiable differences between me and my sister, growing only more poignant as we aged into our adult selves, considering the proximity that we shared for most of our lives. Up until she left for college, she, above anyone else, was the most consistent person in my life. I would go weeks without seeing one parent or another, months without seeing some of my closest friends, but my sister and I were nearly inseparable. We shared the same meals, watched the same movies, and for a period, shared the same lives. But where she went off to play soccer, kiss boys, and be knowingly popular in her inner circle, I preformed improve sketches at a local theatre camp, became deprived of physical affection for most of my most formative years, and was known and yet shockingly unpopular when considering the size of my attended classes. Her voice became rooted in what was known - she liked the life she could see and touch, one that followed a trajectory of how she saw herself, and who she wanted to become. Mine became one of change, longing to reach beyond what I had already experienced, and create new lives, new versions of myself - one that allowed me to leave behind the moments I longed to forget, and create news within a fresh perspective. 

My friends and I shared the same opinions, grew up in the same locations, and went to the same grocery stores. Yet where they excelled in math and science classes, had two loving parents at home, and the largest struggle was their growing adolescent minds, I excelled in English and art, only saw my mother twice a month, and struggled to find a reason to be excited for tomorrow. And slowly, our perception of the world around us separated, regardless of whether we were taking in the same scenery. I grew to resent the upper class, and they aspired to be them. I related to the exes they called crazy, and they told themselves they deserved better. We liked the same films, but their one critique was my favorite scene. We shared the same favorite designer, but where they admired his creativity, I admired his performance. Our voices became distinct, regardless of how similar they originally sounded, because no matter how much we had in common with one another at face value, every little detail of what makes us us, as unassuming as waking up at 5 AM and falling asleep at 9 PM, vs waking up at 7:30 AM and falling asleep at midnight, to our tax brackets shaped everything else as a result.

 One of the biggest struggles in any creative field is trying to find a unique voice to speak into the art you want to create. The biggest step in the process is identifying who you are; not only what your voice is, but what it has to say, and how you want to say it. At this point, it feels like everything worth saying has already been said. Movies from the beginning of my 22 years of life are already being made anew, eras from my teens are being romanticized for the new generation. Every combination of color, every silhouette of a garment, every story has been told, and every song has been written. In my experience, this forms a kind of intimidation, not only to be authentic and voice yourself in your work, but to do so in a way that accomplishes something different. I've also written extensively about this idea of authenticity, especially in relation to my recent senior collection (see portfolio :P) and my relationship to it. Creativity is something I have felt a constant distance from. In that, the unbearable need to feel new is frequently overwhelmed by the sense that what I have to say is not. It's a feeling adjacent to that of impostor syndrome, an uneasy sensation that results in any positively received feedback being dismissed as the realization that I will inevitably fall into the cosmos of those who once tried and failed. I long to be seen, heard, and understood. Not for the explanation of my art, or justifying its significance in my life, or even my person, but from as much first-hand observation as any other art that is undeniably appreciated. 

This same experience transcends beyond art and lingers throughout life itself. My relationships as a whole have often been tentative as a result, kept at a mental arm's length out of the fear of rejection. The same way in which I await the day that someone tells me to just give up that which I have now dedicated years of my life, I await the time in which those closest to me come to the realization that I simply lack interest. I worry that I have nothing interesting to say; though it may be intriguing to me, to others it is merely a surface-level observation, already made by others who speak about it more fluently than I do. I worry that someone cooler will come along, with brighter hair and a better sense of style. Someone with mousy hair that falls perfectly every morning, who smokes cigarettes but isn't addicted. Someone who isn't belittled by the thought of their perception, a "cool girl" who effortlessly fits in no matter the crowd, and says "haute couture" perfectly, without the suggestion that they struggle to roll their Rs. I worry that my art only makes sense when accompanied by a statement, explaining its meaning and thought; that I can only possess skill, creativity, or passion, but not all three at once. What this is is a culmination of all things previously discussed. While, of course, the automatic presumption is blatant and blaring insecurity of which I am relatively vocal about possessing, it also remains difficult to be an artistically inclined individual in this generation without these thoughts entering the mind at one point or another. It is a fear concocted of noticing the lack of new art, new statements, new representations, and new voices; it is a fear of being new to such a scene, especially one with an increasingly overabundant population as the expression of art is for this generation; it is a fear of not standing out within the crowd; and it is the insecurity that you never will. 

Recently, I've been feeling this pressure in a new and profound way. Perhaps a result of the impending presence of my reality, in that it is one I will soon be beginning, or simply a result of personal life leaving that vulnerable side of myself shining brighter than the rest. But like any adult attempting to adjust well into their new life, I've spent just as much time feeling this anxiety as I have trying to remedy it. I find myself thinking about causes and resolutions, yet those often tend to revolve around factors that are largely beyond my control. So I seek comfort. I look for relatability and a shoulder to lean on, but most importantly, I look for things to tell myself. Within the last week, I've told myself to be confident - that letting the insecurity speak louder than the self-assuredness will only dull and ruin what I have yet to say. I've told myself to focus on the world in front of me, and not be weighed down by the world I imagine will soon be mine. But most notably, I've reminded myself of that classroom I sat in 6 years ago, being lectured to by a teacher that I cannot recall in a class that I can no longer remember. I remind myself that no matter how many times a thing has been said, an action has been done, or a piece has been created, it hasn't been by me. 

It is unfathomable that we won't all find common ground on certain aspects of life. A favorite movie will be shared by millions, a favorite book will be discussed in lecture halls filled with one hundred students, clothes will be shared, and styles will be copied. It feels almost like a universal mindset at this point that we all want to do it the best, and to be known for doing it first, but why does it matter? If we look at this topic from the lens of style, I have been begging people of all ages and demographics who care about this idea of being "unique" to thrift. Beyond the pros of circularity, thrifting garners the ability to make a style, no matter how trendy or in season, as unique as their minds are. To find a look and recreate it with your own found garments, more often than not, unlike any others that are commonly encountered, will inherently make it as "your own" as anything else that is personal to you. It is this same "own-ness" that should transcend throughout all life. Not to fear the idea that you won't stand out, but to use the devices you have at your disposal to make whatever it is you want to embody be as "you" as you can. Not to copy or replicate, nor to fear it, but to reinvent. To say something that may have been said, but to use your voice to do it is enough change as is. We carry the experiences we have with us through our lives, and before we realize it, we've utilized them to create something out of it. Whether it be a garment you made because you like the style, an essay you wrote because you felt motivated to do so, an opinion you've shared because you found it sparked something inside of you, it is unique, not because it hasn't been done before, but because you're the one whose done it.