Words by Sal Peters // Photo by Brooke Cagle
I spent high school hiding. Not metaphorically—I mean I was physically hiding inside an oversized hoodie and a pair of grey trackies I wore so often they probably had squatters’ rights. I wasn’t dressing for expression or style or even comfort, really. I was dressing for invisibility.
Fashion felt like something reserved for teens who weren’t dragging their souls through the school day. I was just trying to make it to lunchtime without crying in the science block toilets. There was no room in me to consider what I put on my body every day.
But something shifted in my early twenties. It didn’t happen overnight. There was no makeover montage. Just small moments: opening the curtains more often. Wanting to be seen—gently, on my own terms. One day I walked into an op shop and picked up a banana yellow blazer. I tried it on. It made me feel awake. Not fixed. Not whole. But awake.
I’ve spent the last five years exploring my style, exploring op shops and ethical makers and while fashion doesn’t cure mental health issues, it’s become a balm, a friend and something that gives me a little bit of sparkle. For me it’s gentle, playful and at times, powerful. So here are five items that helped me find a little spark as I was coming back to myself.
1. Sunglasses (A.K.A. My Introvert Armor)
I started wearing sunglasses because I struggled to make eye contact. They were my socially acceptable way of hiding in plain sight. But then they became something more. I started collecting secondhand pairs—quirky ones, vintage ones, a pair that literally has pink glitter flamingos on the corners. And somehow, even on the days I didn’t feel okay, putting them on gave me permission to try. Also, as a hypochondriac with eye issues in the family, wearing sunglasses helps me calm that voice in my head that’s always on about sun safety.
2. A Trench Coat That Became a Cape
I found it in a Vinnies. It was $28 and too long but had the exact right amount of drama. The first time I wore it, I felt like a character in a movie. A spy. A woman with secrets and a favourite red wine. It was the first thing I wore that didn’t shrink me—it extended me.
That trench coat has been with me for five years. Through heartbreaks, hostel beds, job interviews I was wildly unqualified for. It’s been to three countries and probably a hundred late-night walks. It is, simply, my cape. And I expect to be buried it in at a ripe old age.
3. Clothes With Pockets (Because I’m Done With Handbags)
At some point, I stopped carrying a handbag. It was a feminist decision at first (why do men get to be free from bags but women are expected to carry the whole world around with them?). I started prioritising clothes that let me carry only what I need. Lip balm. Keys. Phone. I now only buy secondhand or ethically made pieces with pockets. Big, roomy, confident pockets. It makes shopping more deliberate. More about function and feeling. And honestly, it’s freeing. My shoulders have never been happier.
4. A $12 Little Black Dress
I never realised the power of the little black dress until I found my baby. It cost me $12 and came from a market. It has pockets, it’s stretchy, it’s somehow both sexy and demure. It works with boots, sneakers, nothing. It’s just there to make me feel fabulous. Always ready and it too has followed me across the globe. We’ve had many adventures together and I can’t wait for many more.
5. A Diamond I Never Thought I Would Buy Myself
For my 21st, I did something wild. I bought myself a diamond. Something I never thought I wanted. Just a small one—simple, lab-grown, conflict-free. I had a deep look into what jewellery would best suit my new found desire and where to find ethical, lab-grown diamonds. I chose Rare Carat as the best place to buy diamonds. It’s the only thing I own that feels objectively fancy. And I wear it every day as a reminder of my sparkle.
It’s not flashy. But it is symbolic. It’s a statement to myself that I don’t have to wait for someone else to show me I’m valuable. I already am.
Fashion hasn’t saved me. But it’s helped me remember I exist. It’s helped me feel soft, strong, loud, strange. It’s helped me say: “I’m still here.”
And on the days when I don’t believe that? I put on my sunglasses. And I go anyway.
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