A Full-Time Traveler’s Wardrobe Philosophy
I was never someone who cared deeply about my clothes.
Yes, I fell victim to the Hollister-is-the-only-thing-worth-wearing fad of middle school (my mom once let me buy an ocean-blue long-sleeve t-shirt from the sale rack of the Hollister’s next to the eye doctor in the mall as a reward for choosing the less-expensive wire frames; it was my first Hollister clothing purchase, later joined by lace-edged camis and lots of henleys, and I wore it ragged).
And yes, I’ve spent what probably amounts to several days of my life scrolling through color-coordinated Instagram grids of put-together ensembles featuring drop-waisted dresses and pegged pants and an abundance of trench coats, then thinking “I really could and should develop my own style, why don’t I go on seasonal shopping trips or curate my wardrobe or invest in statement pieces?”
And then I would always end up pulling on the same oversized sweater and leggings and black boots and going out to read a book in the park.
So I wasn’t a sharp dresser. Fine. I was good at lots and lots of other things. But sometimes I felt guilty about it—I had the disposable income and the taste to do better than brief sporadic forays into Nordstrom’s Rack or H&M. And didn’t I care about how I looked? Shouldn’t I? Isn’t that one of the few areas I could gain points in an imperfect, capitalistic, male-dominated society?
All traces of those thoughts disappeared when I left New York to backpack South America for a year.
I’d gotten rid of most of my clothes. I donated a the majority, then sent a box of jeans and purses across the Manhattan Bridge to a friend’s apartment and brought a suitcase of nicer work clothes and sentimental favorites to leave at my dad’s house.
The clothes I’d be bringing with me for this new adventure had to meet very high standards. They had to be durable: I’d be wearing and washing them constantly, and using them across a variety of climates and terrains. They had to be classic: I needed to not get sick of them, month after month, and all of them had to pair well with each other. And they had to be comfortable: now was not the time to try to take on a fashion-blogger personality. I like my clothes functional and easy, and that’s okay; it’s who I am.
My year-long wardrobe fit into one 45-liter backpack. It was four pairs of leggings (two long, two short), two pairs of shorts, a pair of hiking pants, a pair of jeans, a pair of stretchy pajama-like pants, two dresses, two cotton jumpsuits, three t-shirts, three athletic tops, a merino wool pullover, and a small collection of underwear, socks, bras, bathing suits, outwear, and footwear. (The full list, updated after a year of trial-and-error, is here.)
The wardrobe got slight adjustments as time went on—I ripped a hole in the jeans doing a deep squat in the middle of the street in a tiny hiker’s town in Chilean Patagonia for a photo op and a friend visiting me a few weeks later in Peru brought me a replacement pair; a friend of an acquaintance lost the merino wool pullover and that acquaintance, feeling guilty, gave me two long-sleeved cotton t-shirts to make up for it; I ended up spending six weeks in New Zealand and stocked up on fresh underwear and white t-shirts; I lost nearly all the socks I started with—but by and large remained the same for 12 months.
I went home for the holidays and switched out some of my wardrobe before heading back out on the road, and in a few weeks, I’m headed out for a big cross-America road trip and several months of backpacking in Central America. I’ll be using the same core wardrobe.
As I started thinking about what I’d be packing, I realized that in doing this extreme version of wardrobe curation, I’ve (finally) come up with my own personal style. I bet that when (if?) I go back to a more traditional existence—one that comes with my own closet and regular access to a dry cleaner—I’ll find these core tenants manifested in how I dress myself.
Here it is: my style manifesto.
My clothes clothe me; my clothes are not me.
I know many people who use their clothes to express themselves, and that’s beautiful. But that’s not how I see them. My clothes get me ready to go do something in the world, and while I may have personal connections to them, they’ll never tell you more about me than I will.
Neutrals are a girl’s best friend.
Nothing will ever be the new black because black is perfect. All-black ensembles make me feel like I can move through a city with confidence or charm or subtly or loudly—however I happen to feel that day. Neutrals let me blend in and let me show up. They’re easy to clean, easy to replace, and they go with everything. Take away my white t-shirt or my black sweater and you will have impacted 75% of all my possible outfits.
Find what works for you and unapologetically own it.
The early 2000s low-rise-jeans movement coincided with me going through puberty. I hated the way the jeans felt and made me feel, but everyone else was wearing them, so I either wore my pair or stuck to other options I liked better (dresses have always been a favorite). I didn’t try high-waisted jeans until they came back to mainstream fashion in the 2010s. I remember the first pair I tried on. I buttoned them, settled my shirt over the waistline, and wondered: is this how jeans were meant to feel? Not like corporal punishment, but a nice hug, wrapping you up? Now two pairs of high-waisted jeans are all I use in the “non-leggings pants” category, and I love them. And if they go out of popular fashion, I’ll keep wearing them, because I like how they make me feel and look.
Only buy what you love. Even for basics.
I used to be stuck in this mindset of buying the easiest, cheapest option all the time. Before I left on my trip, I searched for crew-neck white t-shirts. Wandering around what felt like the last K-Mart in America (it had near-empty shelves, half-burned-out lighting, and nary a worker in sight; Google tells me it’s still at Broadway and 8th if you’re interested in being spooked), I found v-necks on sale. I bought one and packed in, my neck preferences be damned. But a few months into my trip, repacking my bag before leaving a hostel in Medellín, Colombia, I came across that white v-neck and realized I’d barely used it. I didn’t actually like it. I was carrying it around on my back, day after day, and it wasn’t bringing me utility or joy. So I left it in the hostel’s donation bin and moved on, pack a bit lighter and wardrobe a bit more me. And now I won’t buy things I don’t enjoy, even if they’re just fulfilling a basic need. Socks, underwear, white t-shirts: you are worthy of being liked, too.
Try to use out your clothes.
I need to be better at not creating waste in all aspects of my life, but one of the places I’m actively applying my let’s-not-destoy-the-entire-planet interests is to my wardrobe. I have very little now, and I wear it often, so I’m finding, for the first time ever, that my clothes are showing wear and tear. Isn’t that wild? 25 years into living on this planet and I’m just now regularly wearing my clothes out. Sure, the first 14 years or so I was growing enough to warrant donating them before the were worn through, but the last ten? I’d stop wearing clothes because they weren’t cool, or because I’d bought them trying to meet a trend I didn’t actually like, or because they weren’t comfortable or functional. Now I buy what I love and I use it until I can’t any more. I just wore through a pair of Nike Frees after wearing them almost daily for a year and putting in thousands and thousands of miles with them; seeing the holes in the heels made me happy, thinking of all the memories I’d made in them. And now I’m loving and appreciating their replacement pair. I’m don’t need to use and reuse my belongings until each is hanging on by literal threads, but I do I want them to have a full lifecycle with me.
Listen to your body.
Sometimes, even if I love certain clothes and think they’ll work for me, I have to admit that they don’t. I just realized this happens with me with sundresses. I love them and have a bunch, and when I was working in an office, it was easy enough to dress one up with a blazer (our business-casual dress code was very heavy on the casual) and wear it all day in an air-conditioned building. But now that my days more regularly include walking around a new city and sweating profusely than sitting all day in air conditioning? Sundresses are out. My thighs touch when I walk, and if I’m sweating and there’s no layer of fabric between them, they’ll chafe, and that feels absolutely terrible. So now I wear dresses less, because pants let me do more and feel better doing it. And that’s just fine.
Buy for who you are today, not who you’ll be tomorrow.
I can’t be the only person who has fallen victim to the soul-crushing practice of finding something cute that isn’t quite right for me but buying it anyways, hoping it’ll later work out, right? I’ve done this so many times, and every time it ends up breaking my heart. Sometimes I buy clothes I’m not comfortable in, thinking my style will change later; it never does (goodbye, super-drapey Athleta stretch mesh wrap). Sometimes I buy clothes that are too small, thinking I’ll tone up later; I rarely do (goodbye, skintight ripped light-wash jean shorts). Sometimes I buy clothes that are on sale, even though I don’t need them, thinking I might need them in the future; I’ve gotten rid of almost all of them (goodbye, unworn cocktail dresses). And now I live in the moment that I’m in, and if I need to buy clothes, I buy for that moment. Not next week, not next year, not next trip—now.
What do you think? What do you wear, what do you not wear, how do you connect confidence and values with what you put on your body?