Fashion as a First Language: How We Express Ourselves from Childhood On

I grew up in a home where creativity was in the air I breathed. My mom, an artistic graphic designer, filled our space with color, texture, design, and wonder. My dad, ever the entrepreneur and problem-solver, taught me to look at the world with curiosity and a hunger to build something. In hindsight, it almost seemed inevitable that I would become someone who saw clothing as a canvas to express who I was and who I was becoming. In my vibrant childhood environment, I learned early on that fashion could be a powerful form of self-expression.

Despite the differences in where we come from like the homes that raised us and the rules that shaped us, we all seem to arrive at the same question: Who am I? And somehow, again and again, fashion becomes one of the first answers we turn to without even knowing it.

Studies in developmental psychology show that even from an early age, children use clothing and dress-up to explore their identities, roles, and emotions. According to a 2015 study published in the Journal of Early Childhood Research, imaginative dress-up allows children to experiment with power dynamics, social roles, and self-concept. When kids play princess, superhero, or astronaut, they aren’t mimicking; they’re rehearsing versions of themselves and processing the world around them.

As children grow, their understanding of fashion becomes more nuanced. Media, peers, cultural norms, and personal experiences shape how they interpret and present themselves through clothing. Fashion becomes a social language, a way to signal belonging, individuality, rebellion, or aspiration. According to psychologist Dr. Jennifer Baumgartner, author of You Are What You Wear, clothing choices are deeply intertwined with our self-image, often revealing unconscious feelings about who we are and how we want to be perceived. 

I didn’t always carry the confidence I wear much easier now. But as my mother often reminded me, fake it ‘til you make it. I think back to my kindergarten graduation (technically a uniform-optional day) when she surprised me with a hot pink dress in sharp defiance of the stiff navy and white plaid dress I would usually wear the rest of the week. It was an unspoken agreement between my mom and I: even if no one else chose to stand out, I would. And even at five years old, I was ready for that. I craved the spotlight not for attention, but for the quiet thrill of self-expression, of being seen as entirely myself. That dress was more than a pop of pink, and it was my parents’ way of saying: go ahead. And I happily did.

In developmental psychology, this early experimentation with identity is called “enactive representation”, a stage where children make sense of themselves not through words, but through action and embodiment. Researchers at Stanford have even shown that these small, self-directed acts of play contribute to what’s known as "self-efficacy", the growing belief that we are capable of shaping outcomes in our lives (Bandura, 1977). What looks like a child playing dress-up is often a child rehearsing who they might become.

Looking back, my pink dress was an early form of exposure therapy for the anxiety of standing out, gently nudging my brain to tolerate and eventually crave it. The more I stepped outside my comfort zone with what I wore, the more I realized the truth that cognitive psychologists love to cite: humans drastically overestimate how much others notice or judge them, a phenomenon called the "spotlight effect" (Gilovich et al., 2000). I learned that most people are far too busy worrying about their own outfits to care much about mine which, frankly, was liberating.

Over time, the confidence I built in front of my closet began to spill into the rest of my life. And I think that deep down, I always knew it wasn’t just about the clothes but instead about learning to be unapologetically me! 

For some kids, especially those who grow up with strict dress codes or uniforms, fashion becomes even more meaningful - not because they were given the right to it, but because they were denied it. Hana Razvi, a recent journalism school graduate and member of The Vault noted on her experience with uniforms at her school. “I grew up in religious community and went to private school, so I wore a uniform for the first 10 years of my life. Fashion truly was the escape to creativity I craved and embraced into adulthood,” she shared. Every morning, pulling on the same stiff fabric can feel like shrinking into someone you aren’t, so every piece you choose is a small act of defiance.

For Lilly Hartzell, fashion has always been woven into the sweetest parts of her childhood. Growing up with two sisters meant there was never a dull moment, where she says they “were always playing dress up, whether… twirling around as princesses or trying on…dad’s oversized suits”. Family can teach us how to have fun with fashion, to be fearless and creative. What looked like harmless playtime was, neurologically speaking, a form of identity scaffolding, and building flexible cognitive models for who one might become. And those playful moments sparked something deeper for Lilly - a love for using clothing as a way to express herself. “Without my sisters’ influences (and closets), I slowly found my own style, one that helps me feel confident and ready to take on whatever the day brings”. Now a senior at UW Madison and co-vice president of The Vault, Lilly carries that same joy and creativity into every outfit she puts together and blends that same childhood magic with her own evolving fashion voice. 

For Marlo Pulliam, co-founder of The Vault, dress-up was serious business as a child. One morning she’d be click-clacking around the house in her mom’s high heels, practicing how to be a very important adult who people finally took seriously. The next, she’d drown herself in her dad’s oversized suit jackets, convinced she was a powerful CEO who could silence a room with one stern glance. On other days, she borrowed her sisters’ glasses to become the impossibly smart girl, then promptly kicked off her shoes to play the barefoot bohemian, then switched gears entirely, waving out of car windows like royalty (because obviously, the princess version of Marlo required impeccable public relations). Each outfit let her audition for a different role, as if life was one long costume drama. T

hat early obsession with transformation naturally evolved into her love for thrifting. Every secondhand piece offered a mystery: Who wore this and why did they give it up? Was it heartbreak? Unflattering tugging? Tax fraud? She’ll never know. “Clothes are amazing,” Marlo says, “but we’re the ones who give them life”. The fabric may hold history, but it’s the wearer who keeps the story going by writing the next chapter.

Marlo and I both grew up steeped in this language of clothing: studying it, playing with it, and, in our own ways, translating who we were through it. So it felt almost inevitable that we’d want to keep that conversation going. That’s how The Vault was born! Part club, part community, part ongoing experiment in the self. Fashion carries a unique kind of social charge — what psychologists call aesthetic synchrony — the bonding that happens when people engage with art, design, and shared aesthetics (Keltner & Haidt, 2003). While most college organizations orbit around academics, sports, or career networking, we realized there was a missing space: somewhere people could explore how they present themselves to the world, while also witnessing and celebrating how others do the same. Clothes offer that rare paradox of being deeply personal, but intentionally visible. They’re a kind of wearable storytelling that invites both privacy and connection.

And it’s no accident that so many of us crave spaces like this. In identity development research, this need for community-based self-expression is well-documented. Erik Erikson famously described adolescence and young adulthood as critical periods of "identity vs. role confusion," where trying on different roles becomes essential to solidifying a stable sense of self. The Vault became that experiment made real. It’s a space where students can test-drive versions of themselves, collaborate, inspire one another, and find belonging not despite their differences, but because of them. In a sea of 40,000 students, it gave us a kind of intimate creative laboratory, one where individuality and community could coexist, stitched together by fabric, color, and the unspoken language of personal style.

What’s most remarkable is how early some of us seem to grasp that instinctively. Long before we can write a résumé, we’re already broadcasting tiny, visual drafts of ourselves to the world. Few people embody that better than Ava Beydoun. Ava, a senior and fashion lead at The Vault, has always been one of the coolest people I know…and honestly, she’s known it too since she was a kid. Take a look at this photo to the left. Think you can single her out of the crowd? Hint: she’s the one making an insane fashion statement even at age 5. Somehow, as kids, we just KNOW. That bold confidence seen in Ava over a decade ago has only grown. For Ava, fashion is a way to speak “when words fall short, a way of telling the world who [she is] and how [she’s] feeling”. She reminds us that “fashion is for everyone”, and that “if you are confident and feel good in your outfit, you are already a fashionista”. Well said, Ava. 

Katherine, a senior stylist and fashion director of The Vault, echoes that sentiment beautifully. For her, fashion has always been deeply emotional. “Ever since I was young, fashion has been a way to express feelings I can’t explain with words. I love the sense of identity and freedom it gives me,” she shares. In moments when language fails us…when we’re overwhelmed, uncertain, or simply still trying to figure ourselves out, clothing gives us a different kind of voice. For Katherine, putting together an outfit is about translating an inner world into something tangible, wearable, and real. Research in cognitive load theory suggests that when the brain struggles to process complex emotions, translating them into physical decisions (even small ones, like what to wear) helps reduce mental strain (Sweller, 1988). W

hen the brain freezes, sometimes it’s easier to let your outfit do the talking.

This is the power of fashion. It’s not only about trends or brands or aesthetics. For many of us, especially during the tender years of childhood and adolescence, fashion is one of our first tools for autonomy. It’s how we learn to say this is me before we even fully know who “me” is, and we somehow know how to do it with a tutu, a cape, or in my case, anything with sequins. It’s a living, breathing expression of identity in flux. 

Even now, as adults, that early relationship with fashion echoes in our closets, our choices, our confidence, our relationships. And so, we keep dressing up…long after the days of plastic tiaras and superhero capes…still answering that same question we’ve asked since childhood: Who am I today? Turns out, fashion keeps giving us new ways to answer. Sure, getting dressed involves less glitter and more “does this fit the vibe of my 9 AM meeting?”, but that early sense of fashion as self-expression sticks around. Whether we grew up in a home overflowing with creative freedom or had to carve out small places to experiment, fashion taught us how to claim our space in the world. And that lesson stays with us long after we outgrow our shoe sizes.