Thursday, November 27, 2025

In the very early hours on this Thanksgiving Day—and somewhere between drifting out of sleep and deciding to get out of bed—I found myself thinking a great deal about my mother. Not about her holiday meals or the rituals of past Thanksgivings, but about something quieter and far more enduring: her creativity, especially as she expressed it, in her clothing choices.

She had a way of dressing that was a little unusual for “those days.” People might have called her overdressed or a touch too polished for everyday life. Yet if she were strolling into a department store today, she’d simply be called stylish—bold, intentional, and entirely herself.

My own style has wandered a long road. During my working years in the corporate world, I wore the expected uniform: suits—navy, brown, black—paired with conservative tops and sensible pumps. Nothing daring, nothing loud, nothing to draw a second glance. I wore a kind of professional armor—respectable, reliable, and utterly unremarkable.

When retirement arrived, I traded corporate life for horses—beautiful, messy, mud-slinging horses. My “style,” if one could call it that, became functional layers, dusty denim, barn jackets, and shirts no longer resembling their original colors. Horse life doesn’t care about fashion; it cares about surviving the elements and getting hay out of your clothing and hair. I spent years happily dressed in what was only describable as rags-with-purpose.

It wasn’t until much later, when I found a job in retail, that I realized how far I’d drifted from any real sense of style. Surrounded suddenly by fabrics, mannequins, new arrivals, and customers asking for advice, I felt nudged to re-engage—to look again, learn again, and find my footing in a world I had set aside.

And that’s when my long-past style influencers quietly began resurfacing.

I found myself drawn to earlier icons—especially the simplicity of Chanel, her confident elegance, and her refusal to apologize for beauty or individuality. I re-discovered that Chanel’s originality speaks to me, still, even after all my years of practicality and barn dust.

One of the more “interesting” designers who followed in Coco’s House of Chanel was Karl Lagerfeld. I discovered his bold creations after starting to work in retail. At first, I disliked them wholeheartedly. Karl loved to scrawl his name with messages from Paris all over his designs. I swore—loudly to myself—that I would never wear a garment plastered with an egotist’s name and scribbles.

Until, on a whim and unable to resist, I brought a pair of Karl’s Jeans—they had large and rhinestone-encrusted cuffs. I finally got up the courage to wear them in public—and found my jeans becoming noticed up and down the street—greeted not with laughter, but with appreciation. Real appreciation. For their sparkles, their boldness, and mostly, the humor of it all.

After that, I softened—began studying “the Karls.” I’d try on a piece or two and, after that, buy one and wear it in public. I discovered that being noticed could feel…fun. Beneath it all, though, my clothing choices always drifted back to clean and timeless Chanel lines—ones my mother would have admired.

So early today, my mind wandered to fashion—my mother appeared as my guide. At first, her presence confused my drowsy self, until I realized that she had been my guide—the style influencer that I never fully recognized, until now.

Here, in my later years. While reflecting sleepily on my recent journey in retail and hearing my customers ask, “What is my style?” (and asking myself, what’s mine?), I could see myself gradually viewing “something called style” differently. Most importantly, this morning, I understood how I’ve learned to appreciate what my mother quietly handed down to me.

Today, I’m thankful for all these—for the subtle inheritance of taste, for the courage to express myself, and for a mother whose sense of style found its way back to me—long after I thought I had left it behind.

Happy Thanksgiving!

— Diana