By Jussara Da Silva
There is a question I wish more people asked themselves before buying anything. Not, Is this trending? Not, Will this increase in value? Not, Is everyone talking about it? Not even, Will people compliment me when I wear it? A much simpler question than all of those. Do I actually like this? It sounds almost too obvious to deserve asking, yet I have become increasingly convinced that it is one of the hardest questions to answer honestly today. We live in a world where opinions arrive before experiences. Before we even see a collection ourselves, someone has already reviewed it. Before a handbag reaches the boutiques, someone has declared it the next investment piece or the next failure. Before we try on a coat, someone has ranked it. Before we discover a designer, someone has decided whether they deserve our admiration. Our opinions no longer begin with observation. They begin with exposure. We spend so much time consuming what everyone else thinks that, without even noticing it, we slowly lose the ability to hear our own voice. The question quietly changes from What do I love? to What is everyone else loving right now? Those may sound similar, but they create completely different wardrobes and, perhaps more importantly, completely different relationships with ourselves.
I sometimes wonder how many of our preferences genuinely belong to us and how many have simply been borrowed from the internet. We often like to believe that we are independent thinkers, yet every day we absorb thousands of subtle suggestions about what beauty should look like, which brands matter, what luxury means, what colors are considered current, what silhouettes are becoming outdated and even what type of lifestyle deserves admiration. None of these messages usually arrive as direct instructions. They appear quietly, disguised as inspiration. A street style photograph here. A campaign there. A creator recommending a handbag. Another explaining why one shoe is suddenly “over.” Another announcing the return of something we supposedly abandoned years ago. Individually these moments seem harmless, but together they slowly build a picture of what acceptance looks like. Before long, many of us stop asking whether we truly admire something and begin asking whether we are expected to admire it. It is such a subtle psychological shift that most people never notice it happening, yet it quietly shapes the way we dress, the way we shop and even the way we see ourselves.
Perhaps this is why I find taste so fascinating. Taste cannot be downloaded. It cannot be copied from someone else’s wardrobe, purchased through the newest luxury collection or built overnight by following the right accounts. You can borrow inspiration. You can borrow references. You can borrow styling techniques. But you cannot borrow taste. Taste is something much slower than that. It develops through years of paying attention. Through noticing what repeatedly moves you. Through walking through museums, reading books, watching old films, observing architecture, traveling, making mistakes, buying things you later regret and slowly discovering why certain objects continue to speak to you while others lose their appeal almost immediately. Taste is built in private long before it is ever seen in public. That is why truly stylish people rarely look identical to one another. They may admire many of the same designers, but they interpret them differently because they bring their own history, memories and personality into every decision they make.
I also think we have confused agreement with confidence. Social media has quietly taught us that if enough people approve of something, it becomes easier for us to approve of it too. There is comfort in belonging to the majority. If everyone loves a particular handbag, wearing it feels safe. If everyone criticizes a collection, disagreeing suddenly feels uncomfortable. We rarely admit this to ourselves, but many of us are afraid of standing alone in our own taste. We worry that loving the “wrong” designer somehow says something about our intelligence. We hesitate to admit that we dislike a bag everyone else seems obsessed with because we fear looking outdated, uninformed or simply different. Yet fashion has never advanced because everyone agreed. Fashion history exists because someone looked at the world differently. Every designer we admire introduced ideas that initially confused people. Every artistic movement was once considered strange. Every iconic silhouette was once unfamiliar. If the people who shaped fashion had waited for universal approval before trusting their instincts, fashion would never have evolved at all.
One of the most liberating realizations I have had is that admiration and ownership are not the same thing. I can admire a collection without needing to wear it. I can appreciate the craftsmanship behind a handbag while knowing it does not belong in my wardrobe. I can understand why a trend resonates with millions of people while quietly recognizing that it simply is not for me. That realization changed the way I consume fashion. It removed the pressure to participate in every conversation. Because that is what trends really are—conversations. Some conversations you naturally join because they genuinely reflect your interests. Others you simply listen to with curiosity before allowing them to pass. There is no rule that says every trend must become part of your identity. In fact, some of the strongest personal styles are built precisely because people become comfortable saying, I appreciate it, but it is not me.
This is also why I believe building a wardrobe has surprisingly little to do with shopping. Shopping is simply the final step. Long before we buy anything, we are making decisions about who we are, what attracts us, what stories we want our clothes to tell and what kind of life we hope our wardrobe reflects. Every purchase is simply the visible result of those invisible decisions. If those decisions belong to someone else, our wardrobe slowly begins to feel disconnected from us. That feeling explains why so many people stand in front of closets full of beautiful clothes and still feel as though they have nothing to wear. It is not always because they own the wrong clothes. Sometimes it is because they own clothes chosen by a version of themselves that was seeking approval rather than expressing identity.
Whenever I think about personal style now, I find myself returning to one question that has become far more important than any trend forecast or shopping recommendation. Would I still love this if nobody else ever saw me wearing it? I think that question reveals almost everything. If the answer is yes, you have probably discovered something meaningful about your taste. If the answer depends entirely on how other people might respond, perhaps it is worth pausing before making the purchase. Fashion becomes far more enjoyable when it stops feeling like a performance. The goal was never to impress strangers walking past us in the street. The goal was never to own the most recognizable logo or the newest release. The goal has always been to build a wardrobe that quietly reflects the person standing inside it.
Perhaps this is what we forget in a world where opinions travel faster than ever before. The internet can recommend a handbag. It can predict the next trend. It can tell us what celebrities are wearing, what editors are carrying and what collections critics loved this season. It can do many extraordinary things. But there is one thing it can never do for us. It cannot tell us what genuinely feels like home. That is something only we can discover ourselves, patiently, slowly and honestly. Maybe that is why taste remains one of the last truly personal luxuries. It asks for something the modern world rarely encourages: silence. Enough silence to hear your own preferences before someone else’s opinion arrives. Enough confidence to disagree without apology. Enough patience to build a wardrobe that does not simply look fashionable today, but continues to feel like you years from now.
Because trends will always move. Designers will continue introducing new collections. Fashion will continue evolving, surprising us and inspiring us, exactly as it should. But personal style has never been about moving at the same speed as fashion. It has always been about knowing when to move with it, when to admire it from a distance and, perhaps most importantly, when to trust your own eye over the noise surrounding you. The most beautiful wardrobes are rarely the ones that contain everything. They are the ones that contain only what someone truly loved enough to call their own. And perhaps that is the real challenge today—not learning how to follow fashion more closely, but learning how to hear ourselves clearly enough to remember what we liked before the world told us what we were supposed to love.
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