I learned to "dress like myself" again with a "collared cardigan."

It was a chilly morning in February this year. I stood in front of my wardrobe before heading out, holding two options: one was a suit that "looked very effortful," with stiff shoulders and a cold color; the other was the deep gray-blue wool collared cardigan, like wrapping a quiet corridor around myself. It wasn't trendy, and it even resembled the kind of "clean adult" I had seen in the library as a child.

I ultimately chose the cardigan. Not because it looked better, but because I suddenly didn't want to use clothes to defend myself anymore.

The subway was crowded, and the sound of coats rubbing against each other was like windshield wipers. Some people wore oversized jackets, zipping them all the way up to their chins; others had their sneakers polished to a shine, with pant legs sharp like a period; there were also those in high-heeled shoes, taking small yet firm steps. In the past, I would score them with my eyes: who matched better, who looked more "high-end." But that day, I noticed something else—everyone was using their clothes to accomplish a private little task: getting through today.

I thought of the phrase "dressing taste," often spoken of as a kind of talent: as if understanding colors, proportions, and fabrics meant you had won. But what truly affected me was the more practical aspect: taste is not about "can you," but "are you willing." Are you willing to lead yourself out of "other people's gaze" and back into your body, rhythm, and real needs?

I used to be a "label-type" dresser. When busy, I relied on the same safe combination: a white shirt, black pants, and a fail-proof bag. That outfit was like a safe, making me look very much like a "professional," but it also made me feel very suffocated. For a while, I could hardly tell: was I at work, or was I playing the part of a working person?

Then one time, I was chatting with my friend Xiao Lin in a café about "dignity." He pointed to the little fuzz balls on my sleeve from rubbing against the computer desk and said: dignity is not about being forever new, but about knowing there are fuzz balls and still being willing to do things well. That sentence sounded a bit harsh, yet very sincere. The wear on clothes is the fingerprint of life, not evidence of failure.

So I started doing a small thing: treating my wardrobe as a calendar, not an exhibition hall.

I set a seemingly simple rule for myself: to dress each week around one "anchor item." That week's anchor was this collared cardigan. Its collar served as a "boundary," reminding me to find a middle ground between relaxed and formal: no need for armor, nor to pretend to be cute; suitable for meetings and also for grocery shopping after work.

I found that once I determined the anchor, other choices automatically became fewer: I chose straight-leg dark pants, comfortable shoes, and no longer stuffed my bag with "just in case" items. Once dressing shifted from "display" to "use," one feels lighter. Lightness is not carelessness; lightness means you no longer treat every day as a judgment day.

During an afternoon meeting, Xiao Zhou from the neighboring team complimented me, saying, "You look comfortable today, yet very spirited." Such comments used to excite me because they felt like a pass. But that day, I felt calm instead: I knew he wasn't saying "you really dress well," but "your state today is right." The clothes merely amplified the state.

I suddenly understood: what is called "quiet" is not about how plain the colors are; what is called "high-end" is not about how expensive the price is. Quiet means you don't need to prove yourself with sharpness; high-end means you can handle complexity with simplicity.

In these past few years, trends have come and gone quickly: some have brought outdoor functionality into the city, turning life's uncertainties into something controllable; some are obsessed with "old money" restraint, using understated styles to resist anxiety; others have revived office aesthetics, as if trying to regain their sharpness within the rules. All these trends make sense because they respond to the same thing: we are all looking for a way to "place ourselves well."

But trends are ultimately external winds. What truly helps one stand firm is your understanding of yourself: do you need protection today, or do you need to set off? Do you need boundaries, or do you need flexibility? Do you want to be seen, or do you want to be disturbed less?

That day when I got home, I hung up the cardigan and didn't rush to change. Standing in front of the mirror, for the first time, I wasn't checking "is this matching," but asking: does this outfit bring me closer to the person I want to become?

The person I want to become may not always be beautiful or always appropriate, but she knows what kind of life she is living; she is willing to tidy up her life in small details: a clean collar, solid shoe soles, and only the keys she truly needs in her pocket. She understands to leave the noise to the world and keep the stability for herself.

Perhaps this is what I understand as "dressing taste": not dressing oneself into a certain answer, but dressing oneself into a sustainable life. When one day you no longer rush to win anyone's approval with clothes, you will find—clothes finally start to serve you, and you finally start to live for yourself.