35 & a Coastal Cowgirl at heart.
A discovery from Ojai, California.
Since coming back from California, I cannot help but feel like I left a little piece of myself there. Somewhere, in the cactus-laden streets of Ojai, I left behind a part of myself that feels like it holds the potential to unlock some kind of change. I didn’t go to America with any expectations—in truth, I probably went with a few—but those expectations weren’t to be inspired; they were to see big things. Big cars, big portions, big roads. But the truth is that California woke something within me that I have been dancing with for years but have never committed to taking on a date and that is that I am a coastal cowgirl at heart.
I didn’t even know what the term ‘coastal cowgirl’ was until I got to California, but when I did, it felt like the sweetest of homecoming. Women everywhere dressed how I envision myself dressing—cowgirl hats, boots, flowy dresses, and skirts. In my head, this is how I pictured myself, when in reality, I am in jeans, a t-shirt, and Birkenstocks.
The inspiration was everywhere, and I found myself drawn to everything western. I spent hours looking through thrift stores in the hope of finding old cowboy t-shirts, dresses, and hats. I scored a straw cowboy hat for $3, and when I put it on, I felt transformed.
It feels trivial to think of clothing representing so much, but in truth, they do. I have spent years of my life stripping away my attachments to things in order to feel a certain level of enlightenment or, in my case, freedom. There was a time, in my early twenties, that I wouldn’t leave the house to go to the supermarket without a face full of makeup. Now, I wear makeup a few times a year. I used to be so obsessed with the latest fashion, wearing clothing that would get the approval of my peers, and my process to overcome that has been to give no fucks. However, in giving no fucks, I have forgotten to inspire or express myself with the clothing I wear.
The most perfect example of this was in 2019 when I took one of my best friends to the Kutupalong Refugee Camp in Bangladesh. I had been working there for two years at this point, and my friend, who also works in the refugee space, had never been. I have always admired how free she is in the way that she dresses—very colourful, very bold, and always accessorised. On our first day at the camp, I dressed in my usual camp attire: long trousers, walking shoes, and an oversized long-sleeve kameez (a long tunic). I had on no makeup and just threw my hair carelessly into a ponytail. I looked frumpy, about a decade older than I really was, but I kept telling myself it was the respectful thing to do.
My friend, on the other hand, emerged from the bathroom looking exactly as she would if we were back in the UK. She had on a long leopard-print skirt, a band t-shirt tucked in, a full face of makeup, hair perfectly styled, Nike trainers, and jewellery covering her neck and wrists. She was appropriately covered, but it still triggered something within me. I kept thinking, the audacity of her to think that it was OK to dress like this when we were visiting a refugee camp. Unable to hide my dissatisfaction It was obvious I didn’t approve of how she had chosen to dress, and like any respectable adult, instead of being direct, I threw out a passive-aggressive comment about how it was important that we dress in a way that is respectful of the culture and the people we are visiting, and how I had another oversized tunic she could borrow if she wanted it.
She politely declined and then asked me why I was uncomfortable.
I remember launching into some story, rooted in my morals, or a narratives about morals that I have created, about how we are visiting people who have very little, and I felt that it was insensitive for us to dress up too much because it didn’t feel fair to them and how I had no issues spending the next week dressing in a way that doesn’t feel like me in order to make sure everyone else around me is comfortable.
I will never forget what she said to me. She said, “Why should you represent yourself any differently to make other people feel comfortable? If you are being respectful of their culture, isn’t the best thing you can do is to bring your authentic self’
Those words hit. Here I was, feeling pretty miserable about how I looked, whilst my friend was still representing herself whilst still being respectful of the environment we were in, her shoulders and ankles covered. But it wasn’t about the refugee camp; it was the audacity of her to dress like that, full stop. Full stop. How dare she live fully expressed whilst I was over there in a frumpy oversized tunic, borrowed from my mum, suppressing who I am? I sadly didn’t bring anything else with me, so I continued our trip in my frumpy tunic, but those words have stayed with me.
That was 2019; it is now 2024, and I still feel so suppressed in the way I dress. Too concerned with what other people will think, I choose the safe options. I let my toes dip into the costume box of self expression—maybe a pair of cowgirl boots—but never worn with the flowy dress. I get the bangs, but then only wear them out a handful of times, claiming they are too difficult to maintain. I buy the shearling jacket but wear it with jeans that aren’t flared or trainers instead of boots. I stand, in my safe pace, one foot in and one foot out. Ready to mould myself into something else at the first sign of disapproval.
When I watched Daisy Jones & The Six for the first time I fell in love with Daisy. When I watched her, I felt like she was representing a part of me that I so desperately wanted to connect to. I felt inspired watching her style as it evolved throughout the series. She was so 70’s, so western, so cowgirl and so unbelievably cool. The greatest compliment I have ever received was a text from an old colleague who told me I reminded her of Daisy Jones. I think it was more my hair but regardless it was a good day when I received that message.
I had a call with my mentor the other day, and as part of our work together, she got me to use some visual references for who I am. I sat down at my computer 30 minutes before our call and started pinning images to my board. I pinned pictures of matcha lattes, delicious organic food, people travelling, retreats, A-frame houses in the woods, coaching references, self-growth motivation, books, writers, and just as I was about to click off of the exercise, I posted a pic of Daisy Jones. When we were on our call, this was the picture that intrigued her the most.
“Tell me about it,” she said. So I launched into the story about how my trip to California had ignited this desire within me to express myself more authentically, aesthetically. I gave her the story about how so much of my spiritual journey had been about detachment from things and how I look, but then I stopped myself. I have never fully detached from how I look. I have always worked out and moved my body, one, because it makes me feel good, but two, because I like to look good. I ditched the makeup and the painted nails because I never liked those things in the first place. This was never about detaching from things on a path to being more spiritual; that was just the story I was telling myself. It was another example of me abandoning parts of myself to not draw too much attention, to not take up space, and to fit in
But fitting in has gotten me nowhere other than suffocated. Why fit in when you were meant to stand out? I shared all of this with my mentor and watched as a smile spread across her lips.
She asked, “What are you waiting for?”
I was waiting for me. I was waiting for me to let go of the story I had been holding that this was someone part of my spiritual journey and to realise that part of my journey is to embody me, all of me.
After our call, I opened up Pinterest and created a cowgirl style board pinning image after image of looks that inspired me. I then headed to Vinted, where I lovingly spent hours scrolling through items that made me smile. Some were outrageous, and others more understated. For the first time in a long time, I filled my likes with things that felt like me, and instead of just letting them sit there—dreams to be viewed and then forgotten—I proceeded to purchase one thing after another.
At 35, I am fully embracing that I am a coastal cowgirl at heart. Yee-ha.