There’s a strange kind of clarity that only comes from being far away from your wardrobe. Not the edited rack you reach for Monday through Friday—the one with the crisp shirts and dependable denim—but the rest of it. The high-risk impulse buys. The “maybe in Capri” dresses. The swimsuits you swore you’d wear more than once.
This summer, I gave myself the experiment of packing light. One soft tote bag, four days in southern Italy, and exactly zero “backup” outfits. It was, at first, mildly terrifying. I’m someone who likes options. But the whole point was to stop hiding behind them. I wanted to see who I was without the costume changes.
Here’s what happened: I got dressed faster. I worried less. And for the first time in a while, I felt genuinely stylish—because everything I wore, I chose.
I spent most mornings barefoot on the terrace, coffee in hand, watching the light move across the terracotta tiles. That hour—just me, the sea, and a playlist I made in a rush at the airport—felt more luxurious than anything I could have bought. It reminded me that fashion doesn’t need an audience to matter. It just needs intention.
My only swimwear was a yellow bikini, bold and slightly cheeky, bought on a whim and never worn until this trip. I almost left it behind, thinking it was “too much.” Too bright, too attention-seeking, too not me. But the second I put it on under the morning sun, something shifted. It felt like summer should: unapologetic, joyful, alive. I didn’t care who saw. I wore it to breakfast. I wore it in the ocean. I wore it, salt-crusted and sun-faded, until it felt like a second skin.
My friend Claudia—part-time architect, full-time goddess—showed up on day two with a suitcase that looked suspiciously heavier than mine. She emerged from her room wearing a navy blue tankini, somehow managing to make it look like an intentional design choice rather than a “modest alternative.” It had a high neckline, subtle darting, and paired with oversized black shades, she could’ve been mistaken for someone important. She shrugged when I complimented it. “I’m not in the mood to be stared at this week,” she said, not apologetically, just plainly. “But I still want to look good.”
And there it was: proof that swimwear can be both armor and art. That style doesn’t have to scream to be heard. That some days you want to take up space, and others you just want to float under the radar, unnoticed but quietly powerful.
We spent the rest of the week like that—eating peaches on the beach, swimming out further than we probably should have, laughing until our faces hurt. At night, we slipped into cotton dresses with salty straps and still-damp hair, never once checking the mirror twice.
It was the kind of trip where nothing really happened, but everything felt memorable. No makeup. No schedule. No “Instagram moments.” Just real life, filtered only by sunshine and sea spray.
I came home with a better tan than I deserved, a camera roll full of horizon shots, and an acute awareness of how little we actually need to feel like ourselves. A few good pieces. A little risk. A moment of light.
