How Fashion Became My Favourite Travel Companion

The outfits I packed, the versions of myself I found.

You know how a lot of women say their hair is their safety blanket? Mine is fashion.

There's a feeling I can't quite explain: solo travelling always felt a little less vulnerable when I could become a new version of myself every day. Well, an extension of me.

Don't get me wrong, experimenting meant that sometimes I felt like a cool, Matrix-esque sci-fi character in South Korea or a sensual Parisian woman wandering through Montmartre. But unfortunately, there were also times I looked a little bit like Henry VIII in Rome when I convinced myself a velvet puffer skirt was a good idea.

It wasn't.

Anyway, the point I'm making is that fashion is a form of storytelling. It's almost like covering your body in scripture, telling the world exactly how you want to be perceived before you've even said a word.

At first, I was scared to express myself through my outfits. If people didn't like what I was wearing, or I caught a few funny looks, it almost felt like they didn't like me. But eventually, that feeling became liberating. Every day I had a little more fun and cared a little less.

I may or may not have had to buy extra baggage for these newfound versions of myself on the flight home, but it was worth every penny.

Living in London, I was always scared to experiment because I felt like I'd bump into someone I knew. I didn't want to risk ending up as the latest photo next to some painfully witty GIF in my old school group chat.

I used to, and still do, struggle with acne, and for years my glasses felt like a barrier. A protective shield. A one-way mirror where I could see everyone else, but no one could really see me.

Then I went to South Korea.

Over there, glasses weren't something to hide behind; they were a fashion statement. When I finally tried on my first pair of Gentle Monster glasses, I realised something. What had once felt like a very ineffective invisibility cloak had suddenly become an exclamation mark, emphasising my existence as I strutted through the bustling streets of Seoul.

Before I went solo travelling, I had a lucky little black dress. Whenever I panicked before a last-minute date or had an event to go to, I'd throw it on and instantly feel secure.

The 2000s rom-coms had convinced me that the little black dress was practically magic. Surely it would make whoever was standing opposite me realise my worth and fall hopelessly in love.

Imagine my surprise when 22-year-old Matt walked away from our date, saying he'd had a lovely time, but I just wasn't what he was looking for.

Excuse me?

I genuinely had to check I'd packed the right dress.

What that taught me was that I'd been using fashion as a safety net. It was a placebo that made me feel like I fit in, like I was enough. Wherever I went, my little black dress came with me as my own personal security guard.

Until it didn't.

Eventually, I came to the slightly horrifying, but incredibly freeing, realisation that fashion couldn't do the job of a therapist. It couldn't make me feel worthy or safe.

Only I could do that.

But it could make me feel seen.

And yes, being seen is terrifying. You spend so long wishing people would notice you that when they finally do, it's overwhelming. But after trying on so many different versions of yourself, it's hard to remember which version they were judging anyway.

So I slowly stopped caring.

There's something beautiful about different versions of yourself attracting different people. A new outfit often sparked a new conversation. Solo travelling felt a little less lonely when a girl in Seoul complimented my outfit or a bartender in Rome asked where I'd found my vintage kitten heels.

Now, don't even get me started on vintage fashion.

Every piece isn't just fabric; it's a memory. A story that you're lucky enough to add another chapter to.

Fashion is often dismissed as superficial, but it's quietly woven itself into some of the most meaningful moments of people's lives.

My nan, for example, spent years saving for a lime green silk scarf she was convinced was the height of fashion in the 1970s.

When she passed away, I asked if I could keep it.

Since then, it's been with me through first dates, trips across Europe and some of the most formative moments of my twenties. There's something incredibly comforting about experiencing life in the same piece of clothing she once did. Like an invisible thread stitching us together, even though she isn't here anymore.

Maybe that's why fashion became my favourite travel companion.

It wasn't because it made me someone else. It was because it gave every version of me the confidence to step forward.

Some of those versions were flops. Some wore velvet puffer skirts in Rome. Some hid behind glasses. Some thought a little black dress could fix a bruised ego.

Others wandered the streets of Seoul feeling unapologetically seen, or strolled through Montmartre feeling like the heroine of their own story.

Looking back, I don't just remember the places I visited. I remember the girl I became in each one.

And somehow, every outfit found its way into the story.