You think I should settle down, be quieter, dim my sparkle a little? Babe, I didn’t even charge this energy for you.
Let’s talk about freedom, shall we? Not the dramatic, waving-the-flag-on-a-mountain kind (although… if there’s a coffee cart on that mountain, I’m in). I’m talking about the kind of freedom that makes your soul exhale like it’s been holding its breath since the group chat said “no offense but…”
To me, freedom means:
Saying what I want to say.
Like, no more sugarcoating my thoughts in fear that someone might “take it the wrong way.” You took it the wrong way? Well, please return it and grab a new perspective at aisle 3, darling.
Wearing what I want to wear.
Sequins at brunch? Yes. Oversized blazer with sneakers? Obviously. That dress that makes me feel like I just stepped out of a French film even though I’m just going to the grocery store? Oui, chef. Fashion is my therapy, and I don’t take notes from people whose favorite outfit is judgment.
Thinking whatever I want.
I could be daydreaming about moving to Paris, starting a sock-only fashion brand, or throwing my phone into the sea. It’s all valid. My mind is my own little universe, and guess what? Entry is invite-only.
Doing what I want.
If I want to dance in my room at 2am like I just won an Oscar? I will. If I want to switch careers, move cities, dye my hair lilac and call myself “The Lavender Storm,” there’s no committee vote. It’s me, myself, and my surprisingly persuasive inner monologue.
And lastly—
Not giving a single, glittering damn about anybody’s mindset.
You think I should settle down, be quieter, dim my sparkle a little? Babe, I didn’t even charge this energy for you. Keep your outdated opinions in your inbox—I won’t be reading them.
So yeah, freedom isn’t just a word. It’s a whole mood. It’s waking up every day and choosing you without sending a calendar invite to anyone else for approval. It’s messy, loud, unapologetic, and chic. Kinda like me. Kinda like you.
Because at the end of the day, I choose what I say, what I wear, what I think, what I do—and who gets to matter. Spoiler alert: if you’re trying to shrink me into something more palatable… you’re not invited.
Now excuse me while I go wear lipstick just to water my plants.
RETRO CHIC REVIVAL 