In 2015, Matilda Kahl went viral as a woman who chose to wear a uniform on a daily basis to assert for herself “an important daily reminder that frankly, I’m in control.” She recognizes that the concept of a uniform is not new and identifies that a demographic has been using this: “they call it a suit.” At the Black Girls Rock! special in 2012, Janelle Monàe, purveyor of all sartorial black and white things, stated that she “wear[s] [her] uniform to honor” her working class parents who all wore work uniforms. Per the Oxford English Dictionary, a uniform can be “a distinctive dress of uniform cut, materials, and colour worn by all the members of a particular naval, military, or other force to which it is recognized as properly belonging and peculiar” or “a distinctive uniform dress worn by the members of any civilian body or association of persons.” Although by definition, the uniform is emblematic of an association with and to something, these two separate individuals have co-opted the concept to also serve the self.

The first thing that retail taught me was the finer points of dressing in head to toe black. It was not the full, embroidered jumpsuit of my employer but a uniform nonetheless. Over my heart, a tag permanently sat. Above the peeling, plastic label that displayed my name sat that of my faceless employer, emblazoned in permanent, specialized lettering. It was a prefix to my own name. A manager once told me that we were to wear all black “so we didn’t distract the clients and customers.” We were meant to be part of the furniture. The employee is a shade that serves; a useful, void. Uniforms as a concept remind me more of erasure than of choice and control. Uniforms are dictated to the group, not necessarily chosen by the individual. Enter Monàe and Kahl.

A suit, saddle shoes, and high pompadour were Monàe’s uniform in her early career and she rarely strayed. When she did stray as she often does now, the color palette still tends to fall within the limits of black, white, and shades of red in public. The effect is striking and vivid. In the highly photographed and shared way that 21^st century life is lived, it serves as identifiable branding. Kahl does something similar for the workplace by sourcing approximately 2 weeks’ worth of the exact same outfit. Kahl’s IG avi photo is one of never changing work accessory: her specially made neck bow. It serves as identifiable and personal branding. The obscuring effect of the uniform has been rendered personal through choice and limits.

The conscious removal of choices in a space like one’s closet can introduce a sense of control while outwardly projecting the idea of cohesion, personal style, and yes branding. Whenever I’m getting dressed for a situation that leads me to circular thinking, coming up with increasingly more complex excuses to withdraw and/or panic attacks, I fall back on my formula. Like Kohl, I use clothes to assert a sense of control not just as an outward signifier but an internal one. I have chosen to wear this secondhand, forest green duster not just because it is work appropriate, but because it makes me feel good. I love it. With it, my outfit feels complete. It is long enough to protect me from the office chill but odd enough that it never feels boring. My personal uniform has become anything that makes me feel confident enough to swallow my anxiety long enough to go outside. My brain may not be comfortable, but at least I feel comfortable in my clothes. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I have a uniform (yet) but I do have a viable outfit formula. For me, a personal proto-uniform is less about branding and more anxiety management tool. I like clothes. They afford the chance to craft an outward identity for myself instead of settling for the one society will inevitably prescribe for me. But for the sake of getting to work promptly and leaving the house at all, fewer sartorial options sounds great.