On March 3, 2026, it was a little after six in the morning when I took my trench coat off the hook. Always the same. Beige, slightly too long, a slightly threadbare belt buckle, and that discreet smell — a mix of old rain, dry cleaning and the city. I have other coats, newer, warmer, more “current”. But it's the one I choose when I want to feel like I belong in my own day.

We often talk about “sense of style” as a gift: a kind of instinct that allows you to combine three pieces, tie a scarf, and obtain, without apparent effort, a perfect silhouette. I don't quite believe it. Rather, I believe that a sense of style resembles a way of inhabiting the world. And that it is made, patiently, through contact with rushed mornings, too honest mirrors, compliments that we don't forget and outfits that we regret.

This trench coat has become my laboratory. Because he doesn't shout anything. It doesn’t “make” the outfit on its own. He just supervises. And when a piece of clothing frames instead of dazzling, it highlights everything else: posture, look, intention.

I understood late that the intention was more important than the tendency.

For a long time, I dressed to correct something: to appear more serious, thinner, more adult, more creative, more… acceptable. Clothing was a constant negotiation. When I put on that trench coat, I thought I was putting on a form of borrowed authority: a version of me that knows where it's going, even if it's wrong. Maybe that's why we love the classics: they give us a backbone on days when ours falters.

Then, one day, I stopped waiting for a piece of clothing to transform me. I started asking him for something else: to accompany me.

The sense of style, in this place, almost becomes an ethic. Buy less, choose better, wear more, repair, have a sleeve darned, sew on a button. Second-hand fashion and vintage have ceased to be, in my eyes, a treasure hunt and become a way of slowing down the flow. Which changes everything: instead of chasing the new, we learn to look at the material, the cut, the lining, the finishes. We become attentive. And attention is already style.

I think of a tiny, almost ridiculous scene. A rainy morning in the metro a few months ago. A woman stands near the doors, olive trench coat, white sneakers, simple tote bag. Nothing extraordinary. Except that she tied the belt not in a neat knot, but in a loose half-knot, as if she had better things to do than prove her mastery. This detail—barely a gesture—said: “I am at ease.” And I felt a pang of envy. Not the desire for his coat. The desire for its tranquility.

We often confuse style with taste. But taste can remain theoretical: we can know what is beautiful, and not know what to do with our body, our life, our constraints. Style must negotiate with reality: walk quickly, catch a bus, climb stairs, bear the wind, not apologize for existing.

This is where my trenchcoat educated me. He taught me proportions.

A trench coat too long over pants too wide, and I disappear. A belted trench coat too high, and I'm in disguise. An open trench coat over a thick sweater, and the whole thing becomes messy. Through experimentation, I learned a simple rule: if the top piece is structured, the rest can be flexible; if the top piece is fluid, the rest should hold the line. Style is often born from a very concrete, almost architectural balance.

He also taught me color, not as a theory, but as an inner weather.

The beige of the trench is a canvas. On this canvas, I can paint according to the mood: an ecru mesh to make me invisible, a deep blue when I need presence, a burgundy when I want a little courage, an emerald green when I want to contradict winter. I realized that I often defaulted to black — not out of taste, but out of fatigue. And conversely, a single, well-chosen color can give the impression of having slept eight hours.

Lately, there's been a lot of talk about "minimalist" silhouettes, capsule wardrobes, and "discreet luxury." I like the idea of ​​a simplicity that doesn't seek approval. But I am wary of uniforms disguised as philosophy. Minimalism can become a way of hiding, just as exuberance can become a way of protecting yourself.

So I try another question, more honest: do I recognize myself, here, now?

This morning again, I put on the trench coat over straight jeans and a thin sweater. Nothing spectacular. And yet, I took thirty seconds longer. I rolled up the sleeves of the trench slightly to reveal the edge of the sweater. I adjusted the collar so it wouldn't fight against the scarf. I moved the strap of the bag so that it didn't cut the silhouette in two. Three tiny gestures. And the day changed texture.

Perhaps that, ultimately, is the sense of style: the ability to treat oneself with care in the details.

Not to be looked at. To make life practicable.

Clothes, when you think about it, are our most constant companions. They witness our bad news, our important meetings, our late returns, our departures too early. They touch the skin longer than many people. And yet, we often choose them like we choose an excuse: “it was on sale”, “everyone wears that”, “it will do”.

The trench coat doesn’t “do the trick”. He's asking for a relationship.

You have to accept that it will wrinkle a little. Let him take the rain. May he live. We must also accept that it does not always flatter: sometimes it weighs us down, sometimes it stiffens. And that's where I learned a strange thing: style is not the art of being flattered, it's the art of being clear.

Clear about what we like. Clear about what we support. Clear about what we want to say without speaking.

And if I had to summarize, this morning of March 3, 2026, what this trench coat taught me, it would be this: style is not performance, it is loyalty.

Loyalty to a silhouette that resembles us. Loyalty to a rhythm of life. Loyalty to a form of ordinary dignity.

In the street, I meet people dressed “trendy” and others not. But those who mark me are rarely the most brilliant; these are the ones whose outfit seems to fit with their way of walking. As if clothes had ceased to be an advertising message to once again become an intimate tool.

I tighten the belt of my trench coat a little before going out. I've been doing this for years. There is nothing original about it. However, it connects me to something bigger than me: the idea that we can, through small attentions, create a presence. Not the dramatic presence of those who enter a room to dominate it, but the calm presence of those who enter to be there.

And it is perhaps the rarest form of style: the one which does not seek to be noticed, but which makes the world a little more habitable, at shoulder height and sewn-on button.