From letting her daughters clash prints to teaching them how to mend a favourite piece, one fashion director shares the lessons she hopes they’ll carry beyond their wardrobes.
If I’m being completely honest, it was a shoe – a vintage purple boot, to be specific – that made me realise I was ready to be a mum. I remember looking around a vintage store in Porto during Covid. I’d moved there for a job, and life had taken on a much slower pace. On this particular afternoon, I was browsing vintage and charity shops, but nothing was really catching my eye until I walked past a rail of children’s clothes. I paused and turned back to find a pair of leather booties. I didn’t pick them up straight away because I was slightly confused by how emotional I felt. I’d always loved kids, and, yes, kids’ clothes were undeniably cute, but this was different. These shoes felt like they were for my kid.
That little purple shoe gave me a tiny glimpse into a life I hadn’t quite let myself imagine yet: the babies, the adventures, the clothes I’d dress them in and the people they might become. Somehow, holding that shoe made motherhood feel tangible before it was real. Fast forward five years and, unsurprisingly, both my girls have much better wardrobes than me – purple boots included.
I hoped to share my love of style and self-expression with my children (it might sound silly to some, but I once wrote a whole TEDx talk on this). What I didn’t know was that I would have two girls whose approach to getting dressed would be even more creative than mine. I see it in them already, in the way they play and learn. They are an evolution of the parts I love most about myself, and it’s beautiful to watch.
Credit: Londie Ncube
Seeing my five-year-old daughter Akela get dressed brings out so much joy and giddiness in me. I remember one ‘outfit of the day’: she started with layers that felt comfortable and personal to her, layered a skirt under a dress (for volume, I guess), clashed her favourite prints (hearts and flowers), added patterned trousers (it was summer) and then, of course, accessories. Always the accessories. On any given day, this process can be as beautiful as it is painful. On the days when the latter is true and I feel rushed or impatient, I remind myself of something very important: she is learning who she is through clothes, and that helps me let go.
The more I watch my girls find their way with fashion, the more I think about what I want them to take from it. It’s important to me they understand clothes as more than just something we wear. Working in fashion for so long has given me the freedom to dress in a way that feels true to who I am, and that’s something I’ve come to really value. I’m just as intentional about what I bring into my daughters’ wardrobes. We talk about fabrics, textures, comfort and fit, so they can begin to understand what feels good to them, what they’re drawn to, and why.
Credit: Londie Ncube
Akela was around two when we made up our first song about clothes. It was called Oversized, and it was born out of her frustration at clothes that were a little too big. I’d always buy her clothes a size up so we could get more wear out of them. It can be hard for kids to understand boring adult choices like these, so I put my reasons in the lyrics and added a catchy chorus. She grew to love and feel comfortable in loose-fitting clothes for the most part. The song helped her understand that clothes can fit in different ways and why I like wearing loose-fitting clothes myself.
I try to choose clothes that can be worn, cared for and passed down. Of course, there are requests for unicorn tops, but alongside the things she loves, we talk about choosing clothes that will last. I’d rather invest in one really great piece than fill their wardrobes with things that have little meaning or longevity, even if that isn’t always the most convenient option. Akela now often says to me, “One day, this will be Aya’s,” so she already understands that caring for what she has means it can be passed onto her little sister.
I have fond memories of a Stella McCartney coat I bought for Akela when she was much younger, with playful colours and soft fabrics. She loved this coat so much that she wore it most days for comfort, even in the Portuguese sunshine. Something in her just lit up when she had this coat on. The coat has now been passed down to her baby sister, Ayana, who adores it just as much. And Akela absolutely loves seeing her wear it, too. It’s beautiful to me that a piece she once adored is now part of her little sister’s story.
Credit: Londie Ncube
When I was growing up, the clothes you had were the clothes you had. If something ripped, we sewed it. You made things last because that was the only option. I want to pass these values on to my girls, so I get them involved in basic repairs, whether that’s sewing on a button or finding a different purpose for something that might otherwise be discarded.
For a long time, working in fashion made me feel as though I had to fit into a particular box, one rooted in a culture of ultra-consumerism that didn’t always align with my own values. I’m still finding that balance, but over time, I’ve learned that I can engage with the industry while remaining conscious of the choices I make. Often, that starts with simply looking after and valuing what I already own, investing in designer pieces where I can, and shopping vintage and pre-loved clothes.
If you look back at vintage photographs of children, whether they’re being christened, sitting in their buggies or celebrating nursery or primary school milestones, there’s such a beautiful, bold language in the way they’re dressed. My mum’s fashion choices for me stand out so much in my baby photos. Clothes were chosen and even made for the occasion. I remember the red cotton dress with frills I’m wearing in a photo at six months old sitting on my grandmother’s sofa. And the multi-textured, stylishly ugly knitted vest passed down from my cousin to me at six years old (I’ve kept it for my daughters). And, more than anything, I remember the one-of-a-kind pieces the women around me wore.
When I think back to that time in Portugal, it’s funny to consider how a pair of shoes helped me imagine an entirely different life. Now, watching my daughters choose their own clothes, I’m learning about the people they’re becoming.
Images: Londie Ncube