I struggled to find my personal style until I realised cool women are dressing like 13-year-olds

Years of self-reflection led me to the canon event that shaped my pre-thirties style. When my mother was pregnant with me, my elder sister—four at the time—fervently hoped for a brother. My parents indulged her, asking her to join her hands in prayer every night and manifest a baby boy. All the old wives’ tales— the Chinese birth chart, how my mother was carrying, the glow on her face—confirmed that my sibling’s wish would be granted. I was 10 when this story was recounted between laughs at the dinner table and I still remember feeling like I had betrayed my family by being born a daughter when they had so ardently wanted a son.

So, I took it upon myself to become the son they never had. I asked my dad to style my cropped curls exactly like he did his, taught myself football, returned home from the playground with fresh scabs every day and eventually bought myself a motorcycle.

I don’t remember how the first polka dot snuck into my closet in my mid-twenties, but once that boundary was breached, every outfit I had disqualified as a teenager demanded entry. Within the span of a few weeks, I went from wearing linen capri pants and joggers to flared skirts and prairie dresses. Overnight, I stopped pretending to care about Premier League matches and invested in a few makeup essentials. Now that my frontal lobe had fully developed, it was plain to see that the oath I had made to myself all those years ago was unfounded. My family may have wished for a boy, but it is the rebellious, ambitious and strong-headed daughter they raised that they call their pride and joy.