I bought a handbag recently that made absolutely no sense.
It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t particularly versatile. It certainly wasn’t something a capsule wardrobe enthusiast would recommend. But it had personality. The kind that walked into a room before I did. It reminded me that, sometimes, fashion isn’t about making sensible decisions. It’s about falling in love.
And it made me wonder… Has fashion become a little too… responsible?
For years, we’ve been told that the secret to good style is restraint. Invest in timeless basics. Build a capsule wardrobe. Buy less, choose well. Stick to neutral colours. Wear pieces that work with everything else you own.
The advice is sensible. Perhaps that’s the problem.
Somewhere between quiet luxury and understated elegance, getting dressed started to feel less like an act of self-expression and more like a lesson in financial planning.
Every wardrobe became a carefully calculated investment portfolio. Every purchase had to justify its existence. Every outfit needed to whisper instead of sing.
Now, don’t misunderstand me. I appreciate a beautifully tailored blazer as much as the next woman. There is something undeniably chic about simplicity done well. A crisp white shirt has survived decades of changing trends for a reason.
But style has never survived on classics alone. It survives on characters.
Think about the women whose wardrobes we’ve never forgotten.
They wore oversized earrings before they were fashionable. They mixed prints that had no business working together. They collected vintage brooches simply because they made them smile. Their handbags came in impossible colours. Their shoes started conversations.
Lately, I’ve noticed tiny signs that fashion may be craving stories again. Jewellery is becoming bolder. Accessories are becoming less predictable. Animal prints keep quietly returning, refusing to accept retirement.
Colour is finding its way back into wardrobes that have spent years living comfortably in shades of oatmeal.
Even luxury houses seem more willing to embrace humour again, proving that elegance and playfulness have never actually been enemies.
Perhaps we’ve reached the point where minimalism has become so familiar that extravagance suddenly feels refreshing.
Fashion has always moved like a pendulum.
When one extreme lingers for too long, the opposite begins to feel exciting.
Maybe maximalism isn’t returning because we’re tired of neutrals.
Maybe it’s returning because we’re tired of looking interchangeable.
Algorithms have become remarkably good at teaching us how to look expensive.
Less successful at teaching us how to look unforgettable.
Scroll through social media long enough, and wardrobes begin to blur into one another. The same silhouettes. The same colour palettes. The same carefully curated effortlessness.
It’s beautiful. Until everyone is beautiful in exactly the same way.
Perhaps that’s why maximalism feels less like excess and more like rebellion.
Not because it’s louder. Because it’s harder to standardise.
A vintage silk scarf inherited from your grandmother. A pair of emerald heels you’ve owned for ten years. A charm bracelet collected one holiday at a time. None of those pieces owe their appeal to a trend report.
They owe it to memory.
Maybe that’s what maximalism has always understood better than minimalism.
It’s an archive. Of birthdays. Of heartbreaks. Of promotions. Of holidays. Of versions of ourselves we’ve loved enough to remember.
Perhaps the future of fashion won’t ask us to choose between minimalism and maximalism at all.
Perhaps it will ask something much simpler.
Does this look like you?
Because the most interesting wardrobes have never belonged to people with the fewest clothes. Or the most.
They’ve belonged to people whose clothes could only ever belong to them.
And I couldn’t help but wonder…
If maximalism does make a comeback, will we really be embracing more things?
Or will we simply be giving ourselves permission to be more visible again?
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