Style as a Love Language

Imagine this: it’s 7:42 a.m., and Kingston’s wind feels like it has a personal vendetta. You’re already running late for class, your laptop half-charged, your favourite crewneck still in the dryer. There’s a pile of clothes on the chair– hoodies, cargos, shirts you swear you’ll fold later, and a pair of shoes waiting by the door. A notification pops up: “New Arrivals” from a brand you keep telling yourself you’re done with. You stare at your closet and think, I have nothing to wear. Which isn’t true. You have plenty, just not the version of yourself you think you’re supposed to show up as today.

I used to think “dressing well” meant dressing to impress, for crushes, for events, for the feed. But lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to dress with love. Not for validation, but for care.

Or maybe this: some people say “I love you” through words or gifts. I say it through my clothes;  through the jacket I’ve worn through three winters, the shirt I borrow from a friend when I’m anxious, the chain I touch when I need grounding.

If style is a language, mine used to be fluent in apology. Sorry this outfit’s basic. Sorry I wore this last week. Sorry I’m not one of those people who always looks effortlessly put together. I chased aesthetics I didn’t even like, sleek, minimal, curated, when what I actually loved was comfort. Not the lazy kind, the kind that lets you exhale. I bought things for a life I didn’t live: the “night-out” top that never left the hanger, the blazer for a version of me who’s never been that serious.

Here’s the shift: I started paying attention to how my clothes make me feel before how they make me look. Not performative comfort, real comfort. Does this hoodie remind me of walking home from work with music blasting? Do these sneakers feel like the day I met my best friend? Do these jeans still fit the way I move through life? When I stopped dressing to prove something, I started dressing like I cared about myself.

And caring about myself eventually made me care more about the planet. Climate guilt lives in my closet, too– the impulse buys, the donation piles, the “it was only $10” excuses. I used to think sustainability was a checklist: buy better, buy less, follow the rules. But that kind of perfection burns out fast. I’ve done the no-buy months that ended with a binge. I’ve also recycled my guilt through Depop listings. The truth is, loving fashion sustainably isn’t about never wanting more, it’s about treating what you already have like it matters.

Care looks like washing something properly so it lasts another year. Like lending your hoodie instead of buying another one. Like learning to repair a seam instead of replacing it. Like wearing the same jacket every day until it feels like a part of your story.

Some of my favorite pieces aren’t expensive, they just hold memories:

• The black hoodie I wore the night everything finally felt okay again.

• The denim jacket that smells faintly like autumn air and coffee.

• The sneakers that have seen better days but know every route between my apartment and campus.

• The watch that reminds me I’m still here, still on time in my own way.

None of these things are trends, but they’re mine.

I also let go of the fantasy self I kept shopping for, the one who never repeats outfits, who wakes up early to “style” things, who somehow always looks polished. She doesn’t exist. Dressing for her was exhausting. Dressing for me, who’s usually half-awake, juggling classes, and just trying to feel like myself, that’s love. My closet stopped being a display and started feeling like a home.

Now, I build my outfits like emotional playlists:

• For hard days - black hoodie, headphones, sneakers that can take a long walk.

• For good days - cargos, layered shirts, a chain, and the jacket that fits like confidence.

• For burnt-out days - soft crewneck, baggy pants, shoes I don’t have to think about.

Love languages aren’t just for relationships. They show up in the quiet things we do for ourselves. Mine looks like:

• Acts of service: washing, folding, fixing a zipper before it breaks.

• Quality time: trying new combinations on a slow Sunday instead of online shopping.

• Physical touch: choosing fabrics that feel calm instead of control.

• Gifts: swapping with friends, passing something on when I’m done with it.

And sometimes it’s communal– when someone borrows my jacket and I say yes without hesitation, or when I tell a stranger exactly which thrift shop I found something in. That’s style as care, not competition.

I won’t lie and say I’ve stopped wanting new things. I still scroll. I still picture new versions of myself. But now, when I feel that itch, I ask: What do I actually need right now - comfort, confidence, or connection? Most days, the answer’s already hanging in my closet.

If style is a language, I’m learning to speak it softly. Not to impress, but to express. To show up in clothes that remind me who I am and what I care about. Maybe that’s all sustainability really is: loving what you have enough to keep choosing it.

So tomorrow morning, when the wind barges in again and my class is minutes away, I’ll grab the hoodie that smells like routine, the jeans that stretch with me, and the jacket that’s been through too much to quit now. It won’t look like a trend. It’ll look like love.

And love, I’ve realized, never goes out of style.