Sat Jul 4

Last night at dinner, my phone pinged with notifications from Substack and Instagram about personal style, and I caught myself thinking…

If I didn’t talk about personal style or my work at Tibi, would I have anything left to say? Who am I to speak on these things? The market, and every platform feels so saturated with information. So what next? And why?

This may seem like a long internal conversation, but the answer came to me quickly. It was crystal clear. Yes. A loud, glaring, resounding yes.

The idea that one person, one brand, one streaming or social platform can own conversations or ideas feels so limiting. So why this article? Why now?

In September 2025, I opened my Notes app and drafted a title:

Who Gets To…

As in, who gets to be a designer? Who gets to be a writer? A stylist? Influential? Creative? Who gets to take up space?

That question was sparked by my questioning my belonging over the years and reflecting on my own path.

I started design school in 2006, when fashion and media were still highly gatekept. One of my sisters suggested I go back to school to get a MBA, but all I wanted to do was work in the fashion industry. School was the only way in. The early bloggers were just emerging: Shayla Monroque Tamu McPherson, Karen Brit Chick, and Andrea Pippins, whose illustrations I loved. And from Baltimore, I lived on RSS feeds through Google Reader, where every blog I cared about lived in one clean place.

At that time, you knew exactly who everyone was: designer, journalist, stylist, blogger. The categories were clear. The boundaries were tight. Fashion’s Night Out. The Tents at Bryant Park. Everything had an old-world structure.

Fast forward to today, and my feed is full of people who would have never “qualified” back then. They’re not in the industry by trade. Sometimes not even by paycheck. They’re here because they have something to contribute, something to teach, or simply because they want to be. And there are no limits to who gets to be…do…or speak…

If I had to do it over again, I’m not sure my younger self would have felt the same pressure to go to design school just to feel seen. Especially because after going to school for marketing, my path took me into pharmacy retail leadership, where I managed a high-volume store in an inner-city. All I wanted was to be creative and get paid for doing it, but struggled to find the path that led me there but it was all divinely aligned. Thankfully I eventually found my way back to marketing through design.

The rule makers will tell you there’s one way in, but reality and the needs of the community have a way of telling a different story.

Lately, I’ve started noticing that question everywhere, not just online, but in real life too.

And then I met this man on the train…

Well dressed. Kind of chic in that off-duty lawyer, tech guy, business casual way. He complimented my outfit, and I told him he could shop where I worked. That opened a door. He told me he’d always wanted to be a designer.

At first glance, I never would have guessed. But then his eyes lit up.

His family worked in the garment industry. He even attended FIT before switching paths. Now he’s 61, works in sales, runs conferences, and is far from what most people would call “creative.” But when he talked about style, his whole face changed. He told me he makes jewelry and he was wearing the most beautiful eye wear.

I asked him, “Why not now?” The only thing you can’t do at 61 is wait.Start with what’s missing from your closet. A perfect polo. A better belt. A great pair of glasses. Jewelry. There’s always somewhere to begin…

That conversation reminded me that maybe the question, “Who gets to?” is outdated. Because it’s happening everywhere. Not just in fashion. Not just online. Everywhere.

The reason so many of my clients, colleagues, peers, and friends are now writing about personal style, or podcasting, vlogging, creating, and sharing is because it is personal.

For so long, people didn’t have the

language to express themselves. They didn’t have the platform. They were searching for community.

My great-aunt is one of the most stylish women I’ve ever known. I mean, beyond. Every woman in my family was. But style wasn’t something they discussed. It just was. They were too busy being stylish to talk about style.

They had beauty salons that rivaled any old fashion film. Saturdays spent getting their hair done. Shopping trips. Church. Time together. They built community around style without ever calling it that.

For my generation, some of those spaces have disappeared, but new ones have taken their place. And perspective now allows me to see what it’s like for women, especially those of us somewhere in the middle of our lives.

Discovery. Renewal. Shedding. Exploration.

We will always have something to talk about. We will always have something to say. We will always find one another when we’re standing at the crossroads of change. Every generation finds its own way to gather, learn, teach, and build community.

The internet cracked the door open. Social media kicked it off the hinges.

And now we’re left with a better question. Not “Who gets to?” But “When will you begin?”

Share Low Key Important

Leave a comment

I haven’t visited a lot of islands and definitely not the passport-heavy kind with clear water and white sand. My mom, in her older age, has been to plenty which is a big deal, because we didn’t travel much when I was growing up. She been trying to get me on a cruise ship with her for years. But no thank you. Being on an island is one thing. Floating at sea on a mini city with shared sewage? Not for me.

The ones I have been to: St. Simons Island, Hilton Head, and most recently Oahu and Martha’s Vineyard for the first time.

Across all of them, I noticed a common thread: the people there live a quiet life. Their days don’t demand they show up loudly and sometimes, not even all that creatively. So they find ways to balance it all. The pace is slower and it meets them where they are in life professionally, spiritually and visually.

What does it mean to live and dress for a quiet life, especially when other parts of your life ask you to be loud? Maybe you live on an island now, or maybe you just carry one inside of you.

On my trip to Hawaii, my best friend took an Uber, and the driver spoke to him about the “Aloha Spirit.” Our shared albums and all the conversations that followed carried the sentiment of that woman who seemed a little kooky (not for sharing the aloha spirit, but for other conversation points and reasons) at the time. But now, I can see she was offering something greater My friend has since passed away, and this moment was so special and telling...it's something that now helps me to carry his spirit with me.

The Spirit of Aloha is more than a greeting. It’s rooted in values like kindness, humility, patience, hospitality, and goodwill. In her sharing that deeper philosophy of mutual regard, I’ve since been able to apply the Uber drivers lessons and to recognize versions of it in other islands, communities, and cultures.

Island life feels specific, but the quiet life really applies to all of us (at least at some point).

Maybe your past life was full-volume, working in a career that required performance, or commanding boardrooms in clean tailoring. Maybe it was a role that only opened its doors when your aesthetic kicked them in. But now, your life is a little quieter. Not boring. Just quiet...and quite possibly, soft.

Quiet lives aren’t boring, but they are practical in every sense of the word. They rely on clothing that’s easier to wear and easier to transition across your day. Dressing for alignment, not approval. For ease, not a hassle or a fuss.

Struggling to meet your new life especially when your interests or coolness feel like they’ve been left behind can be hard. I felt this after becoming a mother and moving 'city adjacent' to a less bustling life than I had in Brooklyn.

I also saw this firsthand last weekend on Martha’s Vineyard. I sat people-watching, and then I watched myself a bit. What I reached for from my suitcase… versus what I wore, on repeat. I couldn't help but to think about Ralph Lauren's recent collection -  the buzz, excitement and confusion around what it means to have  preppy Americana style alongside cultural reverence and education around its inspiration.

Ralph Lauren’s Campaign Inspired by The History of Oaks Bluff

This is actually Ralph Lauren’s second capsule collection featuring the historically Black brother and sister schools, Morehouse College and Spelman College. If you’ve ever been there or even if you just pay general attention, you’ll see that the inspiration was Martha’s Vineyard overall, and specifically the town of Oak Bluffs. Everything about the collaboration and the full campaign rollout exudes heritage and excellence.

My spouse is a Morehouse man, and I went to Tuskegee University, an HBCU in Alabama right down the road. So I already knew the quality and intention of this collaboration would resonate for those of us inside the HBCU circle and outside.

What I didn’t think about was what people really wear who live on Martha’s Vineyard vs. the market this collab was targeted to. A friend who lives on the island replied when I shot her the reel via DM:

“This collection is lovely, but no one—and I mean NO ONE—on the island dresses like that.”

My designer mind thought, duh, of course not—they’ve got these folks in knickers and pageboy hats, and we will NOT go back. Lol. But that’s what good styling does, right? It’s storytelling for the eye.

Much of the collection is actually quite wearable (very specific, yes), and clearly a big hit—most of what I see is already sold out. (See my personal wishlist below.)

As an HBCU grad who deeply understands what paraphernalia means to the Divine Nine—and what’s expected when you wear your school on your chest—my only question is: how does someone explain wearing a Spelman sweater if they never stepped foot on campus?

Not saying it’s wrong… but even I don’t rock it as a wife, because I don’t want to give the wrong impression to an alum who might assume I’m her fellow Spelmanite. Im curious what the conversations around this internally at RL and with alum sound like.

The more I sat with my friend’s sentiments whilst ON the island, I looked deeper and I understood exactly where she was coming from.

Islanders live a quiet life. And while many of the items in the collection resonated, each person who purchases them has to make the pieces their own. And if someone is just now learning about the rich legacy behind Oak Bluffs or HBCUs, they have a responsibility to dig in, and to share whatever new knowledge they gain.

So to answer her honestly: yes, I could see exactly what she was saying. Islanders are dressing for a life that might call for a cardigan or a cable knit on occasion, but that aesthetic isn’t the heart and soul of style in Oak Bluffs.

But since the island served as the backdrop and inspiration for the visuals and storyline, we have to dig deeper into the real star here, the island itself, its people, and the history that anchors the entire campaign.

Growing up, I didn’t know much about Oak Bluffs outside of two of my top five movies: The Inkwell and Jumping the Broom I had a sense that there was a legacy of Black excellence tied to it, but I didn’t know how to be part of it or if that was even something available to me. And now, just off a little good will, timing, and openness, my daughter got to experience the joy of her Blackness in that space firsthand.

I’ll be honest, part of me assumed it might feel stush or a little too elite. Not in a harsh or critical way, just in that way we sometimes imagine places we’ve only seen from the outside. (This is a safe space, right?) But what I found instead was warmth, legacy, and a spirit of welcome. Families pass along this gift of fellowship and togetherness generation after generation. It wasn’t stush. It was sacred.

To be real, the clothing is nice. But it comes second to the education, awareness, and exposure this campaign will bring and Im happy to have a reference point and tie to this history now.

So what do people actually wear that live in an island town? And what did they wear before? Is there a middle ground?

That thought stayed with me. Because even if they don’t dress like the Ralph Lauren campaign in full, the pieces still belong. They can be broken up. Made personal. Worn in ways that work for both a quiet life and a creative one. Clothing does that if you let it.

See photo of a friend and Spelman grad wearing one of the less obvious Spelman colored Oaks Bluff Patchwork Jacket (seems to look different here, but cute, right?

How To Decode Style In Quiet Places

Each town has a mood. A rhythm.

Edgartown is crisp and classic. Oak Bluffs is full of color and culture. Vineyard Haven is thoughtful, pared back, and seems to be a little more restrained.

And that’s the thing about style in quiet places: It’s not about disappearin or losing yourself, it’s about editing. Refining.

Not everyone is dressing to be seen but they’re still saying something. You can learn a lot by watching what people actually wear. What gets repeated. What feels lived in. The colors they lean toward. What never makes it out of the suitcase.

Style adapts, especially in quiet places. It becomes less about performance and more about presence. Less about being noticed, more about feeling aligned.

This is how people dress when they don’t need to prove anything, but still want to feel like themselves.

I hope you do more of that this week.

-K

Leave a comment

I’ve never called myself a writer, not in the traditional sense. To be honest with you, I couldn’t explain an Oxford comma to save my damn life. I didn’t pay attention in English class. Or let’s just say, I paid attention but couldn’t really digest the why and how of it all. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I had a hard time following.

Classes in college, away from home, were a distraction. The yard (IYKYK), newfound independence without guidance, along with a 1PM English class after lunch? No bueno.

But when they gave me a journal prompt!? I was in it. Honey, I thrived there. Imagination gone wild. I would write until the cows came home.

Looking back, maybe I had a learning difficulty no one ever named. Or maybe I just wasn’t built for the way school taught expression. Either way, what I’ve always known is this: when I speak, I make sense. When I write the way I speak…from the heart, real, unrushed, and honest it lands. Always.

And today, of all days, I need my words to land.

It’s your birthday. And somehow, I’ve landed in your home on this exact day.

It wasn’t planned like that. But in hindsight, so many parts of our friendship have felt serendipitous. We first connected over something as specific as the perfect shade of red lipstick. A color that led to conversations about style, womanhood, culture, and motherhood. And then, more quietly, we started to discover overlaps: our upbringing, our mothers, the way we see people, the way we carry things.

And then there was the email from your husband, such a darling gesture, he reached out trying to figure out the right birthday gift for you because he had heard you mention my name. And I can’t really describe why, but that small thing made me pause.

Because it meant you saw me. It meant I mattered. It meant you valued not only what I bring, but what comes with it.

Now I’m sitting in your home at the tail end of one of the most disorienting, heavy, holy seasons of my life. And this space you’ve created feels like peace. It feels like kindness and care and presence.

I can feel love in the air…in the way you’ve reared your children and how it shows up in their personalities, sprinkled in every room. In the softness of the light. In the culture of your decor.

In being here, I realize: this is the kind of friendship we don’t always know how to name. Making a friend as an adult sometimes feels like dating. You get to know them slowly. Then suddenly, deeply. You find yourself wanting to say, “I love you,” But you hesitate because you want to say it at the right time.

So let me say it now: This is a love note. To you. On your birthday.

For the space you’ve created, for the care you offer, and for who you are, fully and unapologetically.

Maybe this is what friendship is. Not loud. Not performative. Not perfectly timed. Just real. And rooted. And built over time.

It’s someone knowing your favorite shade of red.

It’s someone who holds space without needing a reason.

It’s someone whose peace becomes part of your healing.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but I hope you remember: You don’t have to write perfectly for your words to matter. You don’t have to show up loudly for your presence to be felt. You don’t have to perform friendship for it to be real. Sometimes, the softest places are the ones that save us.

Sometimes, love looks like being remembered. When you’ve been too frazzled to remember yourself.

Happy birthday, friend. Thank you for letting me land here.

Closing Note:

I don’t know who needs to read this, but I hope you’re reminded that good friendship doesn’t have to be loud or performative. And your writing doesn’t have to be perfect to sit beside those who do it formally. Sometimes your words just need space to live. Sometimes, friendship feels like quiet joy, real rest, and someone knowing your exact shade of red.

Not because I knew him, but because, in so many ways, watching him on TV made me feel like I did.

For Black families, especially in the ’80s and ’90s, Theo Huxtable wasn’t just a character on TV. He was a brother. A son. My (I mean our) crush. A cool older cousin you rooted for, even when he messed up.

Remember how mad we all were for him when Denise Huxtable, played by Lisa Bonet (Zoe’s mom, Lenny’s ex), made him that wack, but somehow still iconic Gordon Gartrell knock-off?

We really watched him grow up. And in a way, he watched us back. By sharing parts of his older, more expanded self on social media, we got to see him and see ourselves in his growth, too.

When I got to Tuskegee University and realized Rudy Huxtable (played by Keshia Knight Pulliam) was over at Spelman College, an HBCU, really living the life I had imagined my childhood friend Rudy would have?? Chile, I was beside myself. Seeing myself in her, and assuming we’d naturally be friends because of how similar I one-sidedly thought we were, was probably my first real experience with this feeling.

People call it a “parasocial relationship.” It’s that feeling of closeness with someone you’ve never actually met. But this isn’t a new concept. We’ve been forming these connections for decades, first through television, now through our phones. They’re not fake feelings. And they aren’t shallow. They shape who we are.

Grown-up Rudy is exactly who Baby Rudy thinks she is :)

What Parasocial Means

Parasocial relationships are one-sided emotional attachments to public figures, usually people we’ve never met. The term came out in the 1950s, when researchers started noticing that people were bonding with television personalities in ways that mimicked real relationships. Late-night hosts, news anchors, and sitcom characters created the illusion of connection, and people responded to it.

It wasn’t as weird as it feels now. That was the point. These shows created consistency, comfort, and community, especially for people who didn’t always see themselves reflected. I can see this now, given my highly visible role at Tibi.

If you’ve ever felt like you knew me even just a little from a post, an event, or even on Style Class, that’s not weird to me.

I feel it too.

That feeling is real. It’s shaped by content and algorithms but also by sameness, desire, and empathy. We are more alike than we are different - ask my 80+ client from Australia. She may as well be my doppleganger.

While trying to make this make sense for myself, I made this chart to show how those little moments build up over time. Because the connection goes both ways, even if we’ve never met.

Parasocial, Then and Now

I grew up in the analog era, when your favorite character came on once a week, and you made time to watch. You didn’t binge it. You didn’t fast-forward. You watched it live, on the couch, at the same time as millions of other people. That created a bond.

For Black families, The Cosby Show wasn’t just entertainment. It was presence. It gave us permission. It showed us possibility. You saw your cousins. Your parents. Your life, your home… but with better furniture. And at the center of it all: Malcolm-Jamal Warner, Theo Huxtable.

MLK Episode

Watching him grow up felt like watching us grow up. Week by week. Season by season.

Back then, when the intro song changed on a show, you could feel the energy shift in their households and your own, and you knew a change was coming in the lives of your parasocial friends.

What Happens When We Grow Up with People We Don’t Know

We carry them. And when they age, or shift, or pass, we feel it, sometimes more than we expect.

The thing about getting older, especially in a digital world, is that we’re constantly reminded of our own timeline. A post from someone you followed since college. A celebrity turning fifty. An influencer is having a baby. A comedian doing some kind of podcast now.

But instead of being afraid of it, I’ve started to let it remind me: I’m here. I’m still becoming. I’m allowed to grow with people…even if I’ve never met them.

When people meet me now, they often say, “Oh my God, I feel like I know you. Is that weird?”

No. It’s not weird. I get it.

I share my life online. I meet with you virtually. I DM you, share mirror selfies, and talk to you through the camera. And while I know a lot of people, I don’t always know them the way they know me. But that doesn’t make the connection fake. It just makes it familiar in a different direction.

These days, I work in fashion, but in a new way compared to my training. I get to have a real connection to the customer, and it fuels me. Not just reading empty feedback from a market research deck or fighting with my production counterpart on some merchant-led design team about snaps versus buttons.

Real conversations. Real people. It’s hands-on. It’s present. It’s physical and it’s mental.

But still, I feel the digital pull.

That person I’ve followed for ten years, the woman who always shares her beautiful daughters, each one growing taller with every post. The influencer I’ve never met who makes me want to wear everything she wears…so I bookmark it all, never go back, but still save, share, and comment. Because that’s the least I can do for my homie, right? (Wink wink)

It’s all real. Just real in a different way.

Let Me Be Honest About My Own Parasocial Web

Some of the people I used to follow from afar have become actual friends. Not “Instagram friends,” but the kind who text me back, check in, love on my daughter AND me, and show up when it matters.

Others have stayed in that in-between space. They’re not in my phone. But they’re in my thoughts. I root for them. I’d help if I could. They’ve shaped how I see myself, even if they don’t know it.

So, What’s the Real Benefit?

It’s practice... It’s emotional rehearsal. One that can help you to develop your empanty muscle over tine.

It’s knowing that even one-sided connections can crack something open inside you. Make you softer. Make you braver. Make you feel less alone.

And if someone you’ve never met helped you feel more like yourself, reminded you who you used to be, or showed you how you might grow into someone new, that’s real enough.

Thanks for reading.

Drop a comment if someone you’ve never met has meant something to you. Or just think about it for a bit. That’s enough.

All views are my own and not affiliated in any way with Tibi.

Leave a comment