I'm writing this wearing black jeans, a slightly oversized grey jumper, and the same navy trainers I've had for two years. My hair is in a messy bun held together by a scrunchie one of my kids left on the bathroom counter. There's dried paint on my sleeve from helping with a school project yesterday.
This is my style now. And honestly? I'm more comfortable in it than I ever was trying to fit any particular mold.
But it took me a long time to get here.
South London, early 2000s
I grew up in South London—that specific urban vibe where tower blocks meet pockets of green space, where you're close enough to central to feel the energy but far enough out that it's still got suburban rhythms.
My teen years (2000-2004) were soundtracked by UK Grime before it was called UK Grime. Dubplates of Dizzee, Tinchy Stryder, Wiley, Skepta and JME playing at house parties where the main event wasn't dancing—it was MC clashes.
Weekends meant shopping centres with mates or someone's house party with decks set up in the living room and MCs battling on the mic. That was the culture. That was what being a teenager in South London felt like then.
My style back then? Fairly mainstream with hints of individuality trying to break through. I wasn't bold enough yet to fully commit to anything alternative. I wanted to stand out but also desperately didn't want to stand out, if that makes sense.
I wore what everyone else wore—maybe slightly different, but not enough that anyone would actually notice.
Fashion school as a mature student
I didn't go straight to fashion school from college. Life happened first. I had my first child at 23, which shifted everything about how I saw the world and what I wanted from it.
By the time I started fashion school at 24, I was a mature student with a one-year-old at home and a completely different headspace than my younger classmates. Juggling studio time with childcare, sleepless nights with creative deadlines—it was a lot.
But being slightly older and already having established life outside of education meant I was more confident to explore what I was actually interested in—not what I thought I should be interested in to fit in.
During those years, I started properly exploring vintage markets, researching for collection projects, wanting to expand my design inspirations beyond what was immediately around me in contemporary fashion.
I didn't want to stand out in an obvious "look at me" way, but I also didn't want to blend into mainstream trends anymore. I was searching for something in between—a style that felt considered, intentional, mine.
Fashion school in London gave me creative permission I hadn't given myself before. Not because there was pressure to look a certain way—there wasn't. But because I was surrounded by people making things, thinking deeply about aesthetics, questioning industry norms.
That environment matured my style. I started understanding what I was drawn to and why.
The music shift nobody tells you about
Here's something that happened gradually, then suddenly: I stopped being able to listen to music with lyrics during most of my day.
In my teens and early twenties, I was all about lyrical music. Grime, hip-hop, everything with words and stories and energy. That was the soundtrack to my life.
Then in my mid-twenties, especially as I started therapy while navigating motherhood and fashion school simultaneously, I noticed lyrics had become... distracting. Overwhelming, even.
Therapy helped me understand why I was gravitating toward instrumental music. It wasn't that I didn't like lyrics anymore—it was that my brain needed something different during certain moments. Work. Study. Wind-down. Anxiety management.
Lyrics demanded attention I didn't have to give. My mind would latch onto words when I needed to focus on other things—pattern adjustments, technical problem-solving, just existing without constant input.
So I started curating my own taste separate from what I'd always listened to. Turned out I'm quite eclectic when I'm not just consuming what's around me.
Now my playlists are almost entirely instrumental. Dark R&B and hip-hop beats for moody creative working sessions. Drum and bass when it's sunny or I need high energy—summer especially. Lofi for those long afternoon focus blocks.
Most of the artists are unknown, honestly. YouTube channels like @scandibeats, random Spotify rabbit holes, instrumental compilations that don't even have proper artist credits.
I don't really listen to Grime anymore except in random reminiscing moments. Not because I don't appreciate it—it shaped my entire understanding of UK music culture. But it doesn't serve what I need from music now, which is space to think without distraction.
What "alternative" even means at 38
People sometimes describe me as alternative. I've started using the term myself because it's easier than explaining "urban minimal with functional considerations and slight witchy undertones."
But honestly, I don't know if "alternative" quite fits. Alternative to what? Mainstream fashion culture? Corporate presentation standards? The other mums at school pickup?
Maybe. Or maybe I'm just someone who's figured out what works for them and stopped trying to fit arbitrary style categories.
Here's what my actual style looks like now: urban minimal, I suppose. Mostly black, navy, grey. Clean lines. Good fabrics. Nothing fussy or overly decorated. Comfortable enough to chase a five-year-old. Intentional enough that I feel like myself.
It's not shocking. It's not costume-y. It's just... considered.
The actual outfit formulas I live in
Let me show you what this looks like in practice, because abstract style descriptions don't help anyone:
School Run Formula (Monday-Friday, 8am)
-
Black or navy jeans (always—they hide everything)
-
Oversized jumper or simple tee (organic cotton, crew neck, nothing complicated)
-
Navy canvas trainers (comfortable, versatile, don't look like I'm trying)
-
Black jacket (7 years old now, slightly oversized, perfect weight)
-
Minimal jewelry (a mix of silver and gold rings I never take off, simple earrings)
Total outfit value: ~£200 if bought new. Cost per wear at this point is probably under £1.
It's boring on paper. In person, it works because the fit is right, the quality is visible, and I feel like myself.
Studio Work Formula (Most Days, 9am-3pm)
-
Same jeans (I own four pairs of identical black jeans because why complicate what works?)
-
Fitted long-sleeve tee or lightweight jumper (can't have fabric getting in the way when I'm working)
-
Hair always up (practical necessity)
-
Just rings for jewelry (safety when working with machinery)
-
Trainers or barefoot (I work better barefoot, it's weird but true)
This is when I'm listening to instrumental beats for hours, getting lost in technical details. The clothes need to disappear so I can focus on the actual work.
Evening Out Formula (Rare, But It Happens)
-
Black dress (simple cut, good fabric, versatile)
-
Leather jacket OR the black jacket depending on weather
-
Boots instead of trainers (black ankle boots, 6 years old, still going)
-
More intentional jewelry (layered silver necklaces, statement earrings)
-
Actually do my hair (still messy, but purposefully messy)
This works for everything from dinner with friends to occasional industry events. Still me, just slightly more polished.
Weekend Family Formula (Saturday-Sunday)
-
Jeans (always)
-
Hoodie or sweatshirt (comfortable, washable, will get dirty)
-
Trainers (the navy ones; they work with everything)
-
Jacket if going out (you know which one)
Maximum comfort, minimum thought. I need to be able to move, play, clean up chaos, and not worry about ruining anything.
The mum style paradox
Here's what nobody tells you about having kids and trying to maintain any sense of personal style: you will constantly be touched by sticky hands.
Everything you wear will, at some point, have food on it. Snot. Paint. Unidentifiable substances you'll discover hours later in a shop window reflection.
So you have two choices: dress in things you don't care about and slowly lose yourself, or dress in things you love that can actually survive your real life.
I chose option two, which means being extremely selective. Everything needs to be:
-
Machine washable (no dry clean only, ever)
-
Durable enough to survive being grabbed
-
Comfortable enough for constant movement (I'm on the floor a lot)
-
Quality enough to still look intentional even when covered in breakfast
This is why fabric quality and construction matter to me on a visceral level. It's not theoretical; it's survival.
A well-made black jumper in organic cotton can be washed fifty times and still look decent. A cheap one loses shape after five washes and starts pilling immediately.
When you're wearing the same core pieces constantly because parenting leaves no time for outfit creativity, quality is the difference between looking intentionally minimal and looking like you've given up.
Motherhood as style confidence
My first child's birth at 23 started the journey. Fashion school at 24 with a one-year-old pushed it forward. But it was my second child; born when I was 28, now turning 10; that really cemented things.
By that point I was securely in adulthood. I understood my likes and dislikes. Motherhood gave me this gentle but firm push to be comfortable in what I actually liked, even if it was different from my social surroundings.
There's something about being responsible for tiny humans that makes you stop caring quite so much what other people think about your jeans.
Not in a rebellious way. Just in a "I have bigger things to worry about" way.
My kids helped me find my style by forcing me to simplify everything and only keep what genuinely worked. No room for aspirational pieces I never wore. No space for uncomfortable things I kept "just in case."
Just what I actually needed, actually wore, actually felt like myself in.
The professional meetings problem
I still occasionally have meetings where I'm clearly underdressed by conventional standards.
I show up in jeans and a jumper to meet suppliers in full suits. I attend industry events in trainers while everyone else is in heels.
And yes; 've genuinely had people assume I'm the assistant, not the founder. Part of that is my appearance not screaming "creative industry professional." I look younger than 38. I dress minimal enough that I don't obviously code as "designer."
Early on, this bothered me. I wondered if I should buy some "professional" clothes for these occasions.
Now? I've realised that anyone who can't take me seriously because I'm not in a blazer probably isn't the right partner for Rosenberries anyway.
The brand is built on authenticity and rejecting unnecessary industry standards. If I can't embody that in how I show up, what's the point?
Plus, dressing like myself actually helps filter for the right collaborators. The factories and suppliers who respond well to our approach don't care about my trainers. They care that I know what I'm talking about and treat them with respect.
The ones who judge my outfit before listening to my ideas? Not our people.
What my kids think
My eldest (14, turning 15 soon) recently told me I dress "like a cool teacher but also kind of like a skater but also just normal."
Most accurate description I've ever heard, honestly.
My middle child (turning 10) keeps asking when they can have "cool earrings like mine" (not yet, kid).
My youngest (5) mostly wants to know why they can't wear their Spider-Man costume to school every day (different battle, same principle).
What I hope they're learning; beyond specific clothes; is that style is about knowing who you are and dressing accordingly. Not following rules that don't make sense. Not pretending to be someone else because it's expected.
"Alternative" at 38 doesn't mean rebellious. It means alternative to the pressure to look a certain way just because everyone else is.
The Spring collection connection
Our Spring collection (dropping March 27th; details in Thursday's newsletter) reflects this entire journey.
The navy trainers I keep mentioning? They're in the collection because I wore a similar pair until they fell apart, then spent months trying to find comparable quality. Eventually just designed them myself.
Classic silhouette. Quality materials. Comfortable enough for all-day wear. Durable enough for real life. Versatile enough for multiple contexts.
Not trendy. Just considered.
Everything is designed around: what would I actually wear, repeatedly, for years?
Where to start if you're finding your style
If you're navigating similar territory; personal style that works with real life, not aspirational life; here's what helped me:
1. Identify your non-negotiables
What do you absolutely need clothes to do? For me: washable, durable, comfortable, no ironing needed.
Start there. Practical requirements eliminate options and focus your search.
2. Notice what you reach for
You already know what works. It's whatever you grab when rushing.
Pay attention. What makes those pieces easy? That's your information.
3. Build for actual life, not fantasy life
I used to buy for who I thought I should be. Dressier pieces for events I rarely attended. Statement pieces for confidence I didn't have.
Now I buy for who I actually am: mum, designer, introvert who occasionally goes out but mostly works alone.
Dressing for reality instead of aspiration is incredibly freeing.
4. Let style evolve
What I wore at 18 isn't what I wear at 38. That's fine.
The aesthetic thread is still there; urban, minimal, slightly different from mainstream. But the expression has changed because my life changed.
That's not selling out. It's evolution.
5. Quality always wins
When you find something that works, invest in the best version you can afford. Wear it constantly.
One perfect black jumper worn weekly beats five mediocre ones you cycle through and replace.
The truth about alternative style as an adult
It's less about standing out, more about not blending in against your will.
It's wearing what feels authentic even when it's not trendy.
It's being comfortable enough to show up as yourself, even in spaces expecting something different.
It's recognising "professional" is a construct, and competence matters more than aesthetic conformity.
Mostly, it's just dressing like yourself on a Tuesday when you've got three kids to sort and work to do.
Nothing revolutionary. Just honest.
What's your version?
I'm curious how other people navigate personal style alongside real life; especially juggling kids, work, trying to stay authentic.
What does your actual everyday style look like? Not the Instagram version. The Tuesday morning version.
Let me know. I genuinely want to hear how people make this work.
