From Fashion to Freedom

In college, I was lost. I was studying in a small town in Wisconsin called Menomonie—people nicknamed it “me no money.” It was painful being in a place so small with dreams so big.

My dream was to work in the fashion industry. I had been manipulated by the system to believe that my value came from how I looked—most importantly, how I dressed. Phrases like “a woman can never have too many clothes” and “every day is a fashion show, the world is your runway” were my mantras. I wore a different outfit every day and would be horrified to be seen in the same one twice—let alone photographed in it.

“Life is short—buy the shoes.” I would literally say that to myself, then buy the shoes and never wear them. I dreamed of a closet with space for every pair, like I saw on MTV Cribs. I was programmed to believe that if I had a wall of shoes and a walk-in closet, I’d be happy.

A World Built from Ads

I was obsessed with high fashion. In high school, I covered my ceiling in ads from Vogue, waking up to consumerism—bombarded with images of perfection. Part of me was expressing my creativity and uniqueness, but I was still trapped inside a material world. My creativity only stretched as far as the magazine pages would allow.

It blows my mind now that I paid for magazines full of ads—paying to be sold to. Paying to have my body image destroyed. I handed over my money—my energy—and in return, the images broke me down, stole my individuality, and left me desiring something completely unattainable. A vicious cycle of never being enough, having enough, or doing enough.

I taped workout routines from the magazines to my walls and shamed myself for not doing them. But those magazines never taught me how to listen to my body, how to connect with myself, or how to honor my own unique rhythm.

Wearing Memories, Not Labels

Today, I’ve grown to love wearing clothes passed down by friends—reminders of love and shared memories. I cherish handmade jewelry from street markets, infused with the essence of the maker—perfectly imperfect. Items from places that shaped me carry energy that store-bought fashion never could.

When someone compliments a piece I’m wearing and I get to say, “Thank you—I got it from a small family-owned boutique in Portugal,” it transports me back to that moment. That connection means more than any price tag ever could.

Retail Therapy or Emotional Numbing?

I spent seven years working in retail, focused on quantity over quality. Discounts gave me access to endless clothing, and I indulged regularly. I called it “retail therapy,” but really, it was suppression. I filled the hole inside me with instant gratification, hoping the right outfit could make me feel whole.

I remember shopping for outfits just for that evening—wanting to appear as anyone but myself. I saw clothes as part of my identity, a way to transform. But deep down, I think that desire to be different was actually a desire to heal, to be better, to live better.

Even as a child, I was drawn to personal development. But back then, my growth was surface-level—focused on appearance. I wasn’t yet aware that real transformation starts within.

The War on My Skin

I was obsessed with being beautiful—long hair, glowing skin, the works. I tried to get there with extensions, fake tans, and layers of makeup. But the thing I fixated on most? My skin.

From puberty on, I struggled with acne. I tried everything—antibiotics, birth control pills, harsh creams that bleached my pillowcases. Still, nothing worked. So I went on Accutane—a medication so strong it requires monthly pregnancy tests due to birth defect risks.

I hardly blinked at the warning. I was desperate to solve the “problem” that was my skin. I was so tired of hiding. I wanted to walk out the door without my layer of lies. Looking in the mirror filled me with dread.

Now, I see how little love I had for myself or my body. I was taking pills everyday and drinking poison on the weekends. I cared more about my appearance than my insides. That breaks my heart.

A Prison of Insecurity

Puberty is hard—especially as a girl in America. It’s a kind of pressure I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Having lived in many places, I’ve seen how uniquely toxic it can be in the so-called “land of the free.” I was anything but free. I was a prisoner of my insecurities—vulnerable to every quick fix the system offered.

That’s what the system wants: to prey on women and their desire to be loved, accepted—to be chosen. And how are we told to be chosen? By being beautiful. And how do we become beautiful? By buying whatever bullshit the beauty and fashion industry is selling.

The Girl Who Dreamed

I’m so thankful I didn’t go into fashion. I turned my back on the dream of being a California girl or  a life in New York City—dreams I once wrote in my college dorm room when I was 20.

Menomonie felt like one of the worst places on the planet. I didn’t feel like myself. I dreamed of being anywhere but there. One night, I drew a picture of who I wanted to be: a confident, beautiful woman with long, wavy hair and a camera around her neck, full of stories from around the world.

I made a list of places I wanted to go: Italy, New York, working at Disney world, living on a tropical island. I dreamed of surfing, the rainforest, shopping in Milan, and dancing on the beach. Those dreams lit a fire inside me. They gave me something to live for.

That list shifted everything. It was my secret rebellion against my small-town reality. I took my desperation and turned it into motivation.

Becoming the Woman I Drew

The biggest lesson I learned at Stout was who I didn’t want to be. I knew I needed to live bigger, more freely. I craved discomfort, adventure. I refused to accept a predictable life in the Midwest.

So I started chasing my dreams and began slowly letting go of the dreams that no longer served me. I interned at Disney World, Studied abroad in Florence, Au paired in Sicily, Studied in India and interned in Palermo. All during my time studying at Stout. Each time I left Menomonie, I found more of myself. Bit by bit, I chipped away at fear, programming, and pain. I am healing my body and reconnecting with my true self. And as I do the work within, my outside has changed too—clearer skin, brighter eyes, longer hair, more softness, more glow.

Today, I still dream big. I still push myself beyond my comfort zone. I’ve done things far beyond what that 20-year-old girl imagined—and many things she once wrote down.

I’m so thankful for Menomonie—for showing me what didn’t feel like home, and for lighting the fire that pushed me to search for what did. I’m grateful, too, for the fashion industry. It taught me that what I really care about is not how people look, but how they feel—and that healing starts from within.

Every part of my journey has been necessary. Each experience shaped the woman I am today. Without the discomfort, the insecurity, the dreaming alone in my dorm room, I wouldn’t know the joy of feeling at home in my own skin—or in a city like Prague that reflects my inner freedom.

I’m proud of that younger version of me. The girl who dreamed beyond her small town. Who skipped parties to plan her future. Who wasn’t afraid to be alone, because she was building a relationship with herself. That relationship is still the one I cherish most. I fall deeper in love with myself every day—and that love is what truly lights me up.