Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / The Bravery of Wearing What Makes You Powerful, Not Pretty | Still Standing
Transcript
- I bought a blazer yesterday that didn’t fit my body; it fit the woman I’m trying to become. It was heavy, structured, and completely terrifying to put on. Take a breath with me. Can you feel that? That specific kind of hesitation before you open your closet door? For years, I treated getting dressed like a negotiation. On one side, there was me, tired, maybe a little frayed at the edges from whatever the day had thrown at us. And on the other side, there was this invisible curator in my head who only approved outfits that whispered, 'Please don’t notice me.' We’ve been conditioned to believe that comfort is safety, and that safety looks like blending in. Like soft fabrics that drape over our curves without defining them. Like colors that recede into the background. But here’s the thing about blending in—it works right up until the moment you need to be seen. And lately, I’ve been wondering if we’ve confused being harmless with being whole. Because there is a profound difference between wearing clothes that make you feel pretty, which is lovely, don’t get me wrong, and wearing clothes that make you feel powerful. One is for the eye of another. The other is for the spine of yourself. Let’s sit in that for a second. Pretty is often passive. It’s an aesthetic choice made for consumption. Powerful is active. It’s a structural choice made for agency. I remember a week last month when I felt particularly small. My job had been eating me alive, not because of the work itself, but because of the constant demand to be agreeable, to shrink my opinions to fit into polite conversation. So, I went shopping. Not for something new, necessarily, but for something different. I found a pair of trousers with sharp creases down the front. They were stiff. They didn’t move with me; they required me to move with them. When I put them on, I had to stand up straighter. I had to walk with intention. I couldn’t slouch my way through the morning. There was a cost to wearing them, yes. It took more energy to hold that posture. But what did that cost you? It gave me back my center. It reminded me that I have a shape, a boundary, a presence that occupies space rather than apologizing for it. We rarely talk about the physical weight of resilience. We think of it as mental fortitude, but sometimes it’s literally the weight of fabric holding your shoulders back. Think about the suits of old. Think about the uniforms of leaders, of judges, of commanders. Why do they always have structure? Why are they so rigid? It’s not just tradition; it’s architecture. We build our bodies into the clothes, and the clothes build us back into our bodies. When you wear something soft, unstructured, you are inviting the world to touch you, to soften you, to mold you. But when you wear something with a collar, a lapel, a seam that demands attention, you are saying, 'Here is where I end, and where you begin.' This isn’t about armor in the defensive sense. It’s not about hiding. It’s about definition. In a world that constantly tries to erode our boundaries, to ask us to give a little more, to say yes when we mean no, to take up less room—choosing to dress for power is a quiet rebellion. It is a declaration that you are not just a vessel for other people’s needs. You are a structure. You are built to withstand wind. I used to think that looking professional meant looking polished. Now I know it means looking unmovable. And that is a much heavier burden to carry, but also a much lighter freedom to experience. But let’s be honest about why we resist this. Why do we reach for the soft sweater instead of the sharp jacket? Because visibility is dangerous. When you look powerful, people expect you to act powerful. They expect you to speak up. They expect you to lead. And if you’re someone who has spent years practicing silence, practicing compliance, that expectation can feel like a trap. I recall a friend of mine, Elena, who was a brilliant strategist but always wore pastel cardigans. She wanted to present her big ideas in the boardroom, but she looked like she belonged in a library reading circle. Every time she stood up to speak, she felt like an imposter in her own skin. She said, 'I feel like I’m tricking them.' But then she started wearing a dark, tailored coat. Bold lines. Strong shoulders. The first time she walked in, the room shifted. People leaned in. Her voice seemed to drop an octave, naturally finding its gravity. She wasn’t tricking anyone. She was finally matching her exterior to her interior capacity. The bravery isn’t in the clothing itself; it’s in the willingness to be recognized for the strength you already possess. It’s easier to be underestimated than to be challenged. But we didn’t come this far to be underestimated anymore. So, what does this look like for you today? It doesn’t have to be a full suit or a dramatic gown. It can be something small. A pair of boots that click against the pavement with authority. A watch that feels substantial on your wrist. A color that makes your eyes flash with intensity. It’s about choosing one element of your outfit that says, 'I am here, and I am capable.' This is deeply personal. For some, power looks like bold red. For others, it looks like military green. For me, it often looks like crisp white cotton that refuses to wrinkle easily. It’s about aligning your external presentation with your internal intent. If you are walking into a meeting where you need to assert a boundary, do not wear something that whispers. Wear something that states. If you are going to a confrontation where you need to protect your peace, do not wear something that invites touch. Wear something that creates distance. We curate our lives in so many ways, yet we leave the most visible part of ourselves—the one that walks out the door every morning—to chance. Let’s stop leaving it to chance. Let’s start designing it with the same care we design our careers, our homes, our relationships. You are the CEO of your own presence. Act like it. Now, I want to address the elephant in the room. Comfort. We are taught that discomfort is bad. That if it doesn’t feel easy, it’s wrong. But growth is rarely comfortable. Resilience is rarely comfortable. When you wear clothes that make you feel powerful, you might feel stiff. You might feel exposed. You might feel like you’re playing a character. That is okay. Play the character until the character becomes you. Until the posture becomes natural. Until the confidence becomes yours. I still catch myself slouching when I’m nervous, even in my sharpest blazers. But the fabric reminds me. The seams remind me. The weight reminds me. It’s a tactile anchor in a sea of uncertainty. And isn’t that what we all need? Something to hold onto. Something to remind us of who we are when the world tries to tell us who we should be. Don’t apologize for taking up space. Don’t apologize for demanding respect through your very appearance. It’s not vanity. It’s strategy. It’s self-respect made visible. And there is nothing vain about wanting to be seen as strong. Tomorrow morning, I invite you to try this. Before you rush into your usual routine, pause. Look at your options. Ask yourself: Who do I need to be today? Not who do I need to please, but who do I need to be? If you need to be fierce, choose the cut that cuts deepest. If you need to be steady, choose the weight that grounds you. If you need to be gentle, choose the fabric that hugs you—but know that gentleness can also be powerful. Softness is not weakness. But neither is hardness. You get to choose your texture. You get to choose your tone. This is your life. Your body is your vehicle through this world. Dress it like a vehicle that can handle rough terrain, not just a car for smooth highways. Take a breath with me. Feel the weight of your choices. Feel the power of your presence. You are standing. You are strong. And you are ready to wear the truth of who you are. Thank you for letting me into your morning. Thank you for trusting me with your time and your heart. I’ll see you next time, when we’ll explore how to find courage in the quiet moments. Until then, wear your strength. Love you.