When Fashion Lost Its Personality

Walking the streets of Paris, New York, Florence, Barcelona—you still see it. Style that isn’t for clicks. Women who dress for themselves. Unexpected combinations. Personal uniforms. Proof that fashion didn’t disappear—it just moved off the main feed.

And that’s the part that keeps pulling at me.

Because when I walk into most stores now—online or in person—it all feels the same. Same silhouettes. Same color palettes. Same “must-haves.” Department stores and chain retailers that once felt distinct now blur together into one endless, beige scroll. The experience is flat. The inspiration is thin. The joy feels… missing.

What we lost wasn’t fashion—it was discovery.

Fashion was once fun. It was expressive. It was aspirational and experimental. Now it often feels transactional.

This isn’t a takedown of influencers. Truly—it’s not. Influencers have found their niches, built businesses, and mastered a system that rewards repetition and reach. Hats off to them for that. When the same Mongolian cashmere sweater, wide-leg jeans, quilted jacket, sneaker, or loafer shows up on everyone’s feed, it’s not because people lack taste—it’s because algorithms reward sameness.

The system works exactly as designed.
Efficiency won—but at the cost of individuality.

But the question I keep coming back to is:

What has this done to style?

I love to blame the iPhone. It’s an easy target. But as my wiser-than-me 20-year-old son recently reminded me, “Mom, I don’t love it either—but it’s here. It’s not going anywhere. You can’t keep romanticizing the time before it like it was 1985. You figure out how to use it. You set boundaries. You decide when it’s in charge—and when it’s not.”

Wise kid.

And he’s right.

I can’t change what fashion has become—but I can decide how I want to live within it.

Some context, because my nostalgia isn’t accidental.

I grew up in the fashion industry. I started at fifteen, shadowing and assisting an independent jewelry designer. I retired at thirty-seven from Nordstrom, after a deeply fulfilling career as both a buyer and a store manager at an iconic company that truly loved fashion.

Those years—late ’80s, ’90s, early 2000s—were magical. Inspiration came from European boutiques, travel, conversations, and our own instincts about what women wanted and needed. There was creativity. Risk. Taste-making. We didn’t just sell product—we told stories.

I still remember my first trip to Paris and discovering Longchamp before it had made its way to the U.S. I bought an orange nylon backpack that folded neatly into a square. Later, that genius little bag would become widely known as the Le Pliage line. I brought it home, showed our handbag buyer, and encouraged her to look into it for Nordstrom. That kind of discovery—that kind of excitement—felt electric.

I remember walking into Miu Miu Paris and trying on the most beautiful khaki pleated skirt and a gray flannel pinstripe belted jacket. The jacket was out of my price range at the time—$500–$600 (can you imagine?)—so I bought only the skirt.

I coveted that skirt. No one here had anything like it. I wore it constantly, even extending the waistband with rubber bands through my post-pregnancy body, until it no longer fit. The jacket? One of my biggest regrets. I still think about it. I’ve never seen anything like it since.

That’s what fashion once gave us: longing, imagination, individuality.

Today, I don’t even think trends exist in the way they once did. What we have now are cycles of exposure. And if we’re waiting for our phones or algorithms to bring the magic back, we’ll be waiting a long time.

So how do we reclaim that sense of wonder?

By looking up.

By finding inspiration everywhere except our feeds and the mall. Museums. Travel. Flea markets. Vintage and consignment shops. Small businesses where the owner is still behind the counter. Charity shops—especially in cities outside your own, where you might find a treasure that changes how you get dressed.

By thinking of clothes as more than “rags.”

That cardigan you love? Wrap it and secure it with a vintage brooch. Wear it backward, buttons in the back. Knot it at the waist. Drape it as a scarf. Think beyond what the piece was “meant” to be.

Accessories matter—especially now. They’re the small details that turn everyday things into your own. A scarf, a belt, a second layer, a vest, or a jacket. A necklace that changes the entire mood. A fun belt on the jeans everyone owns. A different tuck. A twist. Hats. Socks. Colored shoelaces.

Currently, I’m intrigued by vintage brooches—using them to add a personal touch to what I already own. My daughter and her friend spent part of the break beading appliqués, dreaming up ways to sew them onto a Trader Joe’s tote, right over the logo. Recreating. Repurposing. Personalizing.

Even Gen Z is pushing back against sameness. They want to differentiate themselves from the masses. But differentiation requires inspiration—and inspiration doesn’t live online.

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Fashion is still an art form. Style is still deeply personal. But we have to participate again. We have to stop outsourcing our taste.

The great news? The magic was never lost.
It just asks more of us now.

If You’d Like to Keep the Conversation Going

If personal style matters to you more than trends, you’ll find me sharing quietly on LTK — daily outfits, thoughtful shopping links, and sale alerts, without the algorithm noise. To me, it’s what I enjoyed about the Instagram Style Community 10 years ago. (HERE)

On Pinterest, I share my own outfit ideas and short videos — simple, wearable looks saved in one place for easy inspiration. (HERE)

In 2026, Instagram will be for Day in the Life moments and occasional style reels — less polish, more presence. (HERE)

And of course, my blog, where it all began – never miss a post, PRESS HERE to sign up for my weekly newsletter!