Where do I begin?
Naturally — with myself. Because to speak of fashion without first understanding the woman behind the wardrobe is like admiring a gown without considering the hand that stitched it.
My name is Reana Ashley. Publicly known as an Entertainment Journalist since 2013. But let’s be honest — press passes and premiere lights were only ever part of the picture. Long before my name ran in headlines, it was written across sketchbooks, mood boards, and fabric scraps taped to my bedroom walls. Reana Ashley was never just a name — it was a brand, handpicked by my mother for a fashion house that, for now, lives only in concept. But as we both know, style doesn’t require a storefront to exist. It requires conviction.
I came from a different fashion epoch — when being seen meant being chosen, and what you wore told a story before you even opened your mouth. Back then, stylists weren’t influencers — they were silent visionaries, sculpting looks before the term “aesthetic” was even weaponized. I was one of them. Not because I wanted to be, but because I simply was.
Design lived in my blood, styling in my bones. Eventually, I put down my sketch pens — not out of fatigue, but reverence. I felt called to preserve the legacy of those who designed under pressure, stitched through struggle, and dreamed beneath ceilings far too low for genius. Some of those names are now etched in gold. Others — forgotten, but no less brilliant.
Fashion, you see, is not simply a statement. It’s survival in silk. It’s rebellion in a shoulder pad. Its mythology printed on a scarf. Do you know how one famed designer began? Known as Gianni Versace. Assisting his mother with tailoring. Thread by thread, he turned his childhood into iconography — symbols that represented home, identity, and a kind of glamour born not from wealth, but from instinct. That is fashion. That’s its origin — not mass-produced trends or fast-stitched replicas.
Frankly, if you can’t afford it, recreate it. That’s true artistry.
My first attempt? A studded jacket — bold, slightly chaotic, and utterly mine. It bore no resemblance to the precision of a golden-era atelier, but it turned heads. People asked, “Where did you get that?” And I responded with pride: “I made it.” That moment? Pure couture — because respect doesn’t come from price tags. It comes from process.
So here we are.
I’ve decided to turn these reflections, inspirations, and design diaries into something new. Something intimate, accessible, and unabashedly mine. A kind of virtual stitch fix, curated with the sensibility of someone who’s lived through enough fashion cycles to know what never goes out of style: confidence, clarity, and the courage to be unexpected.
My aesthetic? Impossible to pin down. One day it's sharply tailored and ice-cold in monochrome. The next? All leather, lace, and contradiction. I don’t “do” one style — I design from instinct, from mood, from the kind of creative restlessness that only designers understand.
Let me show you what inspires me.
One of the first bloggers I ever followed went by Beauty Crush — now reintroduced to the world as Sammi Maria. A London-based muse with a keen eye for balance: edge with elegance, comfort with cool. She brings London’s rhythm — rainy, rich, rebellious — right into the folds of every jacket, every layered necklace, every sharp boot. I admire her seasonal edits deeply.
And being a dual citizen myself, it matters — staying rooted in both worlds, New York and London, sharp lines and soft rebellion. London, with its overcast skies and underground sound, has always treated fashion as an extension of attitude. That’s what Sammi gets right — and what I try to bottle, digitally, in My Closet.
So consider this your personal invitation. To step inside my world, not as a follower, but as a woman dressing herself with the intent to be seen. Because fashion isn’t just what we wear. It’s what we endure, what we elevate, what we choose — even on the days we feel invisible.
More looks. More lessons. More legacy to come.
Until then, remember: never underestimate a well-fitted blazer, an unexpected earring, or the power of saying “I made it myself.”
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