IMPERFECT REFLECTION
When I was a teenager, I had a very specific idea of what “power dressing” meant. In my mind, it wasn’t just about getting dressed—it was an experience. I imagined walking into a fitting room and being greeted like some kind of important guest, with a sales clerk carefully laying out a collection of flawless, high-end dresses and tailored suits just waiting for me to choose from.
In my imagination, it was all very polished and glamorous—almost like something out of a television drama. I used to think of the Carrington women from Dynasty—that unmistakable world of wealth, elegance, and perfectly structured wardrobes. If you’re not familiar with it, the show ran from 1981 to 1989 and became iconic for its portrayal of luxury and power.
Back then, I really believed life for people like that must have been endlessly busy and important—but somehow always controlled, always composed. The Carrington women always looked so effortlessly put together, as if every outfit had just been custom-made for them in some exclusive design house in Italy. In my mind, they didn’t simply try on clothes—they were assisted into them, step by step, like everything about the moment was curated.
I could almost see it: a pristine fitting room, perfectly lit, a mirror that made everything look just a little more cinematic than reality. A woman standing there, pausing for a moment as she studied a reflection that didn’t feel entirely like her—but somehow better. And then, transformed, she would step out of the dressing room looking poised, powerful, ready to take on anything the world had waiting for her.
In that imagined world, even the sales clerk would be slightly awestruck—like they had just witnessed something rare. Maybe even bowing slightly in admiration. And if you blinked, you might have missed the moment the outfit seemed to arrive before the person wearing it, like style itself had entered the room first.
As I’ve grown older, my understanding of “power dressing” has changed completely. It’s no longer about fantasy or perfection—it’s about how I feel in my own skin. It’s about choosing clothes that help me feel steady, capable, and grounded, especially in moments when life feels uncertain or demanding.
For me, now that I'm 60, dressing is simply wearing what allows me to show up as myself—confidently, calmly, without overthinking it. And honestly, building a wardrobe like that has become something I really enjoy. There’s something comforting about knowing your closet holds pieces that work together, that feel good, that reflect your life as it actually is.
These days, when I open my closet, I feel something very different than I used to. I feel ease. Most of what I own now falls into what I’d call likable, wearable, and buildable pieces—clothes that don’t ask too much of me, but still let me express who I am.
Life at 60 feels surprisingly peaceful in that way. I’ve earned a few scars along the way, each one uniquely mine, and I’m learning not to be so harsh with myself about them. I try to meet myself with a little more compassion than I used to. I’ve stopped measuring myself against everyone else’s highlight reel, and instead, I try to simply be present with my own reflection—even on the days it isn’t perfect.
And somehow, there’s a quiet kind of confidence in that.