Sometimes when I see photographs of me and my friends, I try to put myself twenty years in the future. I imagine how it will feel to look at those disposables from a new body and a new life and think: that was me at uni, those were my friends, and that was what I wore.

It’s an inevitable cliché to proclaim horror at what we used to wear. The white cargos and Air Forces will ultimately go, or arguably already are, out of style. All the same, I like to imagine this future version of me with less of a vain and critical eye. She will be able to remember the feeling of certain fabrics on that younger skin, and the empowerment that an outfit could briefly provide, a relief from the nagging selfquestioning and insecurity of our early twenties.

Living on campus during COVID lockdowns presented a unique polarity: the escapist response in fashion to the pandemic flooding TikTok and the pyjama-core of students ambling to the laundrette. I acquired an abundance of loud joggers that year. I have one specific blue, yellow and white striped linen trousers that embody the feeling of Britten House accommodation in 2021: the Big Brother-ness of close living with tens of strangers who would ultimately become life-long friends, break-out room anxiety, Tinder-swiping like a slot machine and postroom emails alerting me to another Depop order.

For many of us, university is a time when we experience physical changes along with, or perhaps because of, the emotional ones. A cocktail of hungover takeaways and the pill, my adolescent body saw some weight gain. This presented a contradiction: I knew I should embrace my body regardless of changing size, and yet it would be dishonest not to recognise my skewed body image and self-consciousness. A red cowl-neck minidress answered to both sentiments, making my new curves feel desirable while concealing areas I couldn’t admit to love.

Approaching graduation, I now have a de facto uniform: a black tube top and blue mom jeans. Boring? Yes, perhaps. Reliable, always flattering, and well-paired with a red lip? Also, yes. I think third year brings a certain blasé to most of us regarding style. My dissertation filled the gaps in my brain that used to daydream about ASOS orders, and I have much less ambition to impress anyone on a night out. The turbulence of my self-image, wavering these past three years, has largely subsided, and a black top and jeans really just does the trick.

The clothes we wear are a reclamation of the narratives our bodies automatically reveal. They document how we approach challenges and present ourselves within a specific time and place. When our future selves are scrolling through their camera rolls on some Saturday night on the couch twenty years from now, hopefully they will see more than a bad choice or an out-of-date look. The clothes in those photos will tell their own story of identity, maturation and change.

Image: Unsplash