The Mara Hoffman dress was the moment I realized: I would never hide behind my clothes again. I was out, proud, and never looking back.

It was a crisp white cotton-linen mini with billowy sleeves and a deep tie-back that dipped low. I had to have it—and once I did, I had to show it off. “Would you take a picture?” I asked my photographer friend Melissa, and she did. Then I posted it on Instagram.

I had been moving toward this—exposure, freedom, revelation—for years, testing the waters with two-piece swimsuits, fitted dresses, and leggings. But this felt monumental. The pendulum had swung before, but this time, it was like a dam breaking. It was 2019, and I was 42.

I was born with Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome, a congenital vascular disorder that left me with a large fatty deformity on my back and torso, a sprawling port-wine stain, uneven leg sizes, tilted posture, and other ripple effects. I’ve always loved clothes, but they haven’t always loved me back.

As a kid, I “fought” with my underwear. My mom still laughs about it. “Every morning,” she’ll say with a chuckle, “wrestling with your underpants.” I remember it too—pulling them on, twisting and adjusting, knowing they’d never sit right. Most underwear is made for bodies with symmetrical thighs and hips, so mine never fit properly. Another kid might have given up on underwear entirely, but my mom passed down her love of fashion to me, and thank goodness for that. She made sure I was always impeccably dressed (I wore Norma Kamali sets in elementary school) because clothes brought her joy. And though my body meant I had to search harder for that joy, I never stopped looking.

As a teenager, the struggle turned emotional, mirroring the highs and lows of growing up. I always wanted what didn’t want me back, settling for what I could get. The chase became the thrill—the harder something was to find, the better. In the ’90s on Long Island, I squeezed into skintight Farlow jeans, which only went up to a size 5 (I barely fit into them, and how they looked—tight on one leg, loose on the other—didn’t matter). I held my breath to zip up my Z-Cavariccis, their tapered waists hitting right at the widest part of my torso, where a classmate once called the bulge a “meatball.” I happily wore neon Hotdogger parachute sets, which screamed “Look at me!”—but so did every other girl in middle school.

Sometimes my body felt harmless. Other times, it felt like something sticky and grotesque, as if touching me would leave someone contaminated. I never loved my body—at best, I tolerated it; at worst, I saw it as an enemy to overcome. And sometimes, clothes seemed to be in on the conspiracy.

I desperately wanted Justin boots as a teen, but they only fit my slimmer left foot, no matter how much lotion I slathered on my wider right one. I remember watching Stacy Gartenlaub slide hers on over three pairs of slouch socks—her feet were so narrow, it was the only way they’d stay on. We might as well have been from different planets. I told myself I couldn’t wear the clingy ribbed sweaters that were in fashion then, even though I could physically put them on. I wanted to—I liked them—but I had decided long ago that my back had to stay hidden. It was like I’d signed an unspoken contract with the world to keep parts of myself unseen.Because mainstream brands rarely fit my unconventional body shape, I developed an elevated sense of style almost by accident. I wore slip dresses under flannels before Marc Jacobs brought grunge to the runway. I paired Betsey Johnson babydolls with bell-bottoms and Fluevog boots. I hunted for Alberta Ferretti and Moschino in Loehmann’s Back Room and ordered X-Girl tees by Kim Gordon from Sassy magazine. My look was cool, but unintentionally so.

Photo: Katie Ward

I used to confidently wear jean shorts in New York summers, proudly showing off my asymmetrical legs—until one day in college, I woke up and thought, How have I been wearing shorts all this time? After that, my legs didn’t see daylight for nearly a decade. It was like snapping out of one dream only to fall into another—safer, but duller. I layered skirts over jeans and tied sweatshirts around my waist. I still loved fashion, but its joy took a backseat to practicality. Clothes became tools: What can I wear that hides me? And once hidden, do I even like what I’m wearing? The bulky sweatercoats of the early 2000s were my most reliable frenemies.

In my 20s and 30s, my style swung wildly between exposure and concealment, like a camera adjusting to light. How much of my body am I willing to show? How vulnerable do I feel today? The answer shifted constantly—depending on my dating life, my diet, my mood. I rarely noticed these changes in the moment; only later could I map the highs and lows.

Then came age—the best cure for the exhausting cycle of self-doubt.

Now in my 40s, my fashion rule is simple: Does my desire for the item outweigh my self-consciousness? The answer is almost always yes. If I love something—the gold-foil Molly Goddard dress that hugs every curve, the Rachel Comey mini that highlights my uneven thighs, the Isabel Marant blouse paired with tiny shorts and No. 6 sandals (even for TV)—and I can squeeze into it, I wear it. Life’s too short not to. When you’re young, you think time is endless. In your 40s, you know better—and that’s liberating.

No romance has ever thrilled me like fashion. No person has made my knees weak the way snagging Katherine Ratliff’s sold-out Alémais Everly pool dress did after a surprise restock. No artwork has matched the rush of an ApplePay confirmation for a Khaite leather dress or Simone Rocha x Crocs collab. That exhilaration amazes me, especially after years of hiding. And the fact that my wardrobe keeps expanding—now including backless dresses—is even better.

I try to support designers who prioritize size inclusivity—those who choose elastic over rigid seams. I don’t expect them to cater to me (they’re artists, after all), but it stings when I fall for a zip-back dress I can’t wear—one that would’ve fit if it were pull-on. Maybe someday more designers will consider diverse bodies. Until then, I’ll buy what works and invest in brands that do.Some designers truly consider real people, while others who make “one size fits all” clothes can just go away.

At 48, I’m not young, thin, or what society considers “normal”—and that’s fine. I’m probably not who many designers imagine when they sketch their creations. But I don’t care. What I wear comes down to one question: Do I want this on my body, no matter what anyone else thinks? Thanks to my amazing mother, who taught me early to love fashion, the answer is always yes.

There was a time when even the word “back” could upset me. A simple suggestion like “Let’s go back to that bar” might make me tense—anything that highlighted my most visibly different feature felt like a risk. Younger me would never have believed that adult me would not only say the word but proudly show it off.

I don’t treat my body like a temple or a monastery. It’s a party hall, a space to decorate, a gift to wrap in bows, patterns, leather, and lace—not something to hide under dull, shapeless fabric. My body is a vessel I love, and that loves me back. Every new day is a gift, and the people who see me are lucky to witness it—so I’ll keep dressing like the present I am for as long as I can.

Carla Sosenko’s memoir, I’ll Look So Hot in a Coffin: And Other Thoughts I Used to Have About My Body, is now available from The Dial Press.