Has Fashion gone Lawless — or Finally Finding Its Freedom?
Written By : Hannah Corbett
I couldn’t help but wonder: if every decade before us had its uniform, what happens when a decade decides not to choose one?
The 1980s was unapologetic excess — shoulder pads that entered the room before you did, power suits that meant business, and glam that shimmered under disco balls and boardroom lights alike. The 1990s stripped it all back, turning toward grunge, minimalism, and a newfound obsession with “cool without trying.” The 2000s? A chaotic parade of rhinestones, ultra-low-rise denim, logo mania, and red carpet outfits that now live on in “Y2K revival” Pinterest boards. Even the 2010s, with all their contradictions, offered a kind of uniform: skinny jeans, ankle boots, band tees, and the familiar comfort of mall brands like Zara, H&M, and Forever 21.
But the 2020s — what are they wearing?
It’s a harder question to answer than it should be. One day, TikTok tells us to embody the “clean girl” aesthetic — slicked-back buns, gold hoops, and glossier skin. Last year we were channeling “mob wife” energy, animal print, oversized fur coats, smoky eyes, and stilettos. Then suddenly, it’s all about being a “coastal cowgirl,” and you find yourself searching for cowboy boots and linen sundresses, wondering when this became the vibe.
These trends come and go with algorithmic speed. They burn fast and disappear before they’ve had a chance to settle into our wardrobes. We scroll, we shop, we discard, we start again. It’s exhausting, exhilarating, and entirely different from the way fashion used to operate.
For decades, fashion’s power came from its structure. Designers dictated the silhouette; editors crowned the season’s It-item; the rest of us followed. There were rules — or at least guidelines — and those rules helped shape a decade’s identity. But what happens when the rules collapse? When micro-trends cycle faster than the weather, and personal style is no longer defined by Vogue's September issue, but by a 20-second GRWM clip?
In some ways, this era of fashion feels lawless. There is no dominant silhouette, no unifying color palette, no singular mood. Cottagecore and gorpcore live side by side. Ballet flats and moon boots share shelf space. The girl in the cafe is in head-to-toe vintage Prada while the girl next to her is in a thrifted Harley Davidson tee and baggy cargo pants. Are they both on trend? Is anyone anymore?
But perhaps what feels like chaos is actually something else: freedom.
For the first time, fashion isn't telling us who to be — it's asking us who we already are. It’s a shift from conformity to individuality. From trends to taste. From “What’s in?” to “What feels like me?”
Maybe that’s why so many of us are leaning harder than ever into staples. The good denim. The perfect white T-shirt. That one sweatshirt we’ve worn so many times it feels like part of our skin. These constants become our compass, a way to stay grounded when fashion refuses to agree on a single direction.
There’s power in that. Not everyone wants to reinvent themselves every week. Some of us just want to feel like ourselves, comfortable, authentic, quietly confident. In a world where fashion used to tell us what to become, maybe the 2020s are the first time we’re dressing to express what’s always been there.
That’s not to say we’ve outgrown trends. If anything, we’re more trend-aware than ever. But the difference is in how we wear them. We’re remixing instead of following. We’re borrowing, not buying in. A coquette bow in the hair doesn’t mean you’re fully embracing the aesthetic, it just means you like bows.
And maybe, that’s the legacy this decade will leave behind. Not a uniform. Not a silhouette. Not even a singular “look.” But a mindset.
That fashion doesn't have to define an era. It can define the individual.
So no, the 2020s may not be as easy to categorize as decades past. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we finally broke the cycle. Maybe we’re done trying to dress like the times, and have started dressing like ourselves.