There’s one topic me and my mother will never see eye-to-eye on: ‘That thing’. The jacket, the aforementioned ‘thing’, has been attributed to several different owners over the years whilst in my possession. Father Christmas, Henry VIII, a pimp. It’s the kind of jacket that divides opinion, the two main camps being the people who tell me that they hate it and those who keep that to themselves.

“I wore it all through winter in sixth form, paired with the guideline checked skirt suit and the not so guideline Steve Madden lace-up boots”

Nevertheless, I persevere in adoring it. It’s a glorious wine-red vintage car coat with huge padded shoulders, a brown fur lapel, lining and cuffs. I wore it all through winter in sixth form, paired with the guideline checked skirt suit and the not so guideline Steve Madden lace-up boots. My friends have come to accept the jacket as something iconic of that era. I wore it to dinner a week after Christmas, paired with red lipstick and cowboy boots, and they greeted it, and me, as old friends.

My mother, however, despises it. To her, I imagine, it’s like a hulking suede beast that lurks in the cupboard, batting away the attention of moths as it waits to be unleashed to the horror of all those who bear witness. She was the one who christened it “that thing”.This is an unusual occurrence for us. My mum has tirelessly defended my wackier pieces from the charity shop donation bins since I freed myself from the vice grip that vintage kilo sales had on me. I still buy the vast majority of my wardrobe second-hand, but my relationship with fashion has become much more mindful and considered.

Some of the less thorough-thought purchases were freed from our unhappy arrangement, like the mint elasticated trousers that very closely resembled scrubs. However, some gems remain, such as a fantastic pair of grey plaid dungarees with wide legs that I rediscovered this Christmas and promptly broke the zip. Other salvations, I am less pleased with. The bright yellow, fleece-lined, waxed fisherman’s coat hangs up in the wall, haunting me with the memory of the gang of boys who laughed at me in the hallway on mufti day. There was no sympathy from my friends, who had nicknamed me Captain Birdseye by the end of registration.

“If we want to break the dangerous cycle of negative self-perception, we need to give people a chance to learn and find their words”

Unfortunately, self-consciousness finally seeped into my style around last year, when we came out of lockdown. I found myself reaching for brands that I recognised, such as Zara and H&M, and paying closer attention to Pinterest feeds than the voice in my own head. This abrupt desire to ‘fit in’ and the over-exposure to Internet micro-trends have culminated in a wardrobe of neutrals, plain denim, oversized jumpers and minidresses. A wardrobe that is perfect for many, but isn’t truly me. Style had become something far less fun and much more calculated.

When I came home from the charity shops with a pair of Levi’s this week, Mum turned to me and said, “you think you’re a lot bigger than you actually are”, after I handed them over to Dad to try. She’s absolutely right, but I’d never had to confront that reality until now. As someone who was born as the chubbiest child yet grew up to be the slimmest sibling, a pretty girl in a crowd of pretty girls, I’ve completely lost sight of what my body actually looks like.

Mother-daughter relationships are often condemned as havens of internalised misogyny, especially around body image and fashion. Mothers can project unresolved trauma onto their daughters, by controlling their own eating habits, striving for a particular weight or clothing size. I believe I have a healthy relationship with my mother in this sense, and I look to her as I drag myself out of the rut I have fallen into. She plied me with some of her formal dresses before coming back up to Cambridge for Lent, a glowing emerald silk gown and a navy dress with an embroidered chest. Although she led with, “you’re doing well to fit into them”, she later said that “if your body changes and they no longer serve you, then that’s fine”. Just like with anything, nuance exists. If we want to break the dangerous cycle of negative self-perception, we need to give people a chance to learn and find their words.

People say that daughters dress like their mothers. Although my Mum would never wear “that thing”, she still respects it. Even though I had lost my way with my style over the past few years, she guarded it for me until I began to rediscover it. It may not be trendy, or aesthetic, but it will always be mine. Whether anyone else likes it or not.