how the algorithm killed personal style
on leaving behind curated identities and learning to dress without performance
There was a time when I couldn’t leave the house unless I was dripped out, looking like I walked straight out of my Pinterest board. Every outfit was a mission: the perfect mix of fishnets, waxed denim, silver jewelry, and star motifs, curated into a fit I’d photograph and post on the gram later. My style was edgy, borderline performative: opium-core meets rockstar girlfriend. And for a while, it was SO fun. But eventually, the fun collapsed under the weight of pressure. Personal style was making my life harder.
What used to feel like self-expression slowly turned into a performance. Every party, concert, or coffee shop outing became an opportunity to construct an identity. An identity I don’t think was really mine. Dressing up wasn’t about what I felt good in. It was about how I wanted to be perceived. I started to question myself. Was this really my style? Or is this just a persona I am trying to maintain?
Fashion, at its best, should be an authentic convergence of function and self-expression. We've been groomed by capitalism to treat ourselves like products, algorithmically packaging our personalities for public consumption. You didn’t hear about “personal branding” 20 years ago. Now it’s baked into the fabric of everything, including how we dress.
Eventually, I gave it up. The statement belts, the carefully styled chaos, all of it. I gave up the desperate need to be interesting. Now I wear linen and silk. Stripes, flowers, and flowy silhouettes. Mostly neutrals still, but I’m enjoying shades of greens, blues, and yellows. My wardrobe isn’t curated anymore. It simply reflects the essence of my identity and personality. It’s simple and intentional. Quiet.
Some might call it basic, but that word doesn’t terrify me anymore.
What’s so bad about looking basic anyways? Why has that become an insult? I think the disdain comes from ego. In a generation starved for originality, shaped by loneliness and overstimulation, we don’t want to be like anyone else. We want to stand out. We want to be different. But striving for a consistent aesthetic can be just as ego-driven as chasing trends. Both are about crafting how others perceive us. Being basic, on the other hand, might be the closest thing to style without ego.
Don’t get me wrong though, I don’t hate trends. Trends aren’t inherently bad. They’re a natural part of fashion cycles. You can trace history through them—cultural shifts, artistic movements, political moments. But microtrends are something else entirely. They’re not born from subculture; they’re born from consumerism and algorithms. They exist to keep is scrolling and shopping. Platforms like TikTok, Instagram, and Pinterest have created an echo chamber where we’re recycling the same five aesthetics, just in different fonts.
Instead of sourcing inspiration from art, music, literature, photography, film, and nature like we’re supposed to, we’ve outsourced our tastes to the algorithm. The result? A homogenized digital closet and a generation too burnt out to finish a book, let alone form a genuine identity.
It took time for me to detach from all this. I realized I didn’t want my clothes to speak louder than me. I wanted them to move with me. To let me exist, not perform.
There’s actually research behind how our clothing affects us. A 2012 study from Northwestern University coined the term enclothed cognition. Basically, the idea that what we wear has a tangible effect on our psychology and performance. Wearing outfits that align with how we want to feel improves focus, motivation, even confidence. And more importantly, when our style reflects who we actually are, we feel more grounded and empowered.
Looking back, those “cool girl” outfits made me feel bold because they got attention. I wasn’t really at peace though. If anything, they had the opposite effect. They encouraged a version of myself that was chaotic, overstimulated, and constantly seeking an audience. I’d blast rage music, go out until I blacked out, and romanticize it all as a vibe. But that vibe was just a mask. If I wore pajamas while smoking a blunt, it would’ve revealed a much darker truth I wasn’t ready to face. I wasn’t embodying confidence. I was hiding behind it.
As my relationship with myself changed, so did my style. I stopped wanting to be a cool girl. I just wanted to be a girl. Someone who wears soft, loose silhouettes that don’t restrict me. Clothes that let me read at a café without being self-conscious, or go on a hike without wondering how I look from behind. When you’re learning how to be alone, how to sit with yourself, the last thing you want is to also be at war with your reflection.
Now, I think of fashion the way I think of art. I can’t create it—I don’t have the technical skill or talent. But I love observing it, analyzing it, being moved by it. I love fashion the way I love architecture or photography. That doesn’t mean I need to wear it. I no longer chase aesthetics or force my identity into a curated mold. I let myself be inspired from afar. I’ve learned to appreciate how garments hang, how textures shift with the smallest movement. But I don’t need to collect it. I don’t need to embody it. I’ve become a fashion observer, not a fashion performer.
Of course, there’s still room for play. I still love accessories. I still admire beautiful tailoring. But I no longer believe that great style comes down to buying the “right” pieces. It’s about knowing what works for you. It’s rooted in self-awareness, not trend awareness. Wear what makes you feel calm, clear, and confident.
My style is no longer a billboard.
It’s a mirror.
Functional, comfortable, and honest.