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So I’m sitting in this impossibly chic café in Soho last week, the kind with $7 lattes and uncomfortable chairs that somehow still make you want to stay for hours. I’m supposed to be writing about fall boot trends, but instead I’m people-watching—my second favorite professional sport after sample sale sprinting. At the table next to me sits the perfect example of the “clean girl” aesthetic: slicked-back bun, gold hoops, no-makeup makeup, and a neutral capsule wardrobe that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Across the room, a dark academia devotee hunches over Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History” (how on-brand), all tweedy blazer and oxfords with the perfect amount of patina. And by the window? Pure cottagecore energy in a flowy floral dress, handmade-looking cardigan, and what appears to be an actual wicker basket as a purse.

I had this bizarre urge to switch their tables and see what would happen. Would they physically combust if forced to inhabit someone else’s aesthetic space? Or would they adapt, trying on another identity like a borrowed sweater? It got me thinking about something my friend Dr. Marissa Chen, a fashion psychologist I met while working on a piece about retail therapy (which is totally a real thing and not just an excuse I use for my Nordstrom addiction), once told me: “The aesthetics we’re drawn to aren’t random—they’re external manifestations of our internal landscapes.”

That conversation sent me down a rabbit hole that resulted in me texting Marissa at midnight: “EMERGENCY FASHION PSYCHOLOGY QUESTION: Do our style tribes actually reveal something real about us?” Because let’s be honest, I needed to know if my occasional forays into coastal grandmother territory (don’t judge—who doesn’t want to be Diane Keaton in a Nancy Meyers movie sometimes?) were actually telling the world something about my psyche.

Marissa, being the absolute gem that she is, didn’t even question the urgency and instead invited me to her office for what turned into a three-hour deep dive on aesthetic psychology. “Fashion choices are never just about clothes,” she explained, pouring me tea in a mug that perfectly matched her minimalist office decor. “They’re a complex intersection of identity expression, aspiration, cultural positioning, and sometimes even emotional regulation.” I pretended to take professional notes while actually writing “EMOTIONAL REGULATION = MY THERAPY SHOPPING IS VALIDATED” in all caps.

What followed was a fascinating, slightly terrifying exploration of what our chosen aesthetics might reveal about us, which I’m now sharing with you—with the massive disclaimer that this is more playful speculation than hard science. Think of it as a fashion horoscope with slightly more academic backing. And before the emails start flooding in, yes, many people float between multiple aesthetics (hello, weekend cottagecore, workweek minimalist right here), and no, liking dark academia doesn’t automatically make you a brooding intellectual with daddy issues. Probably.

Let’s start with the Clean Girl aesthetic, which has dominated my TikTok feed for longer than I care to admit. All slicked-back buns, glossy lips, gold jewelry, and neutral basics. According to Marissa, this minimalist, highly-curated look often appeals to those who value control and efficiency in their lives. “The person drawn to the clean girl aesthetic typically appreciates order and often feels empowered by simplification,” she explained. “There’s a certain discipline required to maintain that level of put-togetherness that suggests someone who values precision in other areas of their life as well.”

Translation: Clean Girls are likely to have impressively organized Google calendars, meal prep on Sundays, and know exactly where their 401(k) is invested. They’re the friends who somehow always have a lint roller, tampons, and Advil in their perfectly minimal bag. They make adulting look effortless, which is both inspiring and slightly infuriating.

The flip side? “There can sometimes be an underlying fear of mess—both literal and figurative,” Marissa noted. “The aesthetic creates a visual sense of having it all together, which might be particularly appealing during times of internal chaos or uncertainty.” In other words, when life feels like a dumpster fire, at least your perfectly slicked-back bun and immaculate French manicure create the illusion of control.

I felt personally attacked when Marissa suggested that the clean girl aesthetic might also appeal to reformed maximalists who’ve been burned by past fashion choices. As someone with photographic evidence of my early 2000s rhinestone-encrusted phase that I pray never sees the light of day, I understand the appeal of a clean slate. Sometimes neutral basics are less about minimalism and more about fashion PTSD.

Moving on to Dark Academia, that moody intellectual vibe full of vintage-inspired blazers, oxford shoes, pleated skirts, and enough tweed to upholster a British library. Books optional but strongly encouraged as accessories.

“Dark Academia enthusiasts are often romantics at heart,” Marissa explained. “They’re usually drawn to depth, intellectual pursuit, and a certain beautiful melancholy. There’s an appreciation for tradition and craftsmanship, but with a slight rebellious edge—it’s the uniform of education with a hint of the tortured artist.”

In regular person terms: Dark Academia folks are likely to have strong opinions about literature, know how to make the perfect cup of tea, and possibly harbor fantasies about mysterious encounters in ancient university corridors. They probably have a carefully curated Spotify playlist for rainy days and own at least one item of clothing purchased specifically because it made them feel like a character in a book.

“There’s often a desire to connect with something timeless in a world that can feel increasingly transient and digital,” Marissa added. “The aesthetic creates a tangible link to intellectual traditions and slower, more contemplative ways of living.” It’s basically analog nostalgia in wardrobe form.

The shadow side of Dark Academia? Sometimes it’s less about the love of learning and more about the aesthetic of intelligence. “There can be an element of intellectual performativity,” Marissa noted gently, which I took to mean “carrying around Proust doesn’t mean you’ve read it, Karen.” Also, the obsession with elite educational institutions can sometimes veer into problematic territory—something to be mindful of if you’re going full Donna Tartt.

Then there’s Cottagecore, the aesthetic equivalent of a warm hug from your grandmother, if your grandmother lived in a picture-perfect English cottage surrounded by wildflowers and woodland creatures who help her bake sourdough. Flowy dresses, pastoral prints, natural fabrics, and an artisanal approach to, well, everything.

“Cottagecore appeals to those seeking connection—to nature, to simpler ways of living, to more tangible forms of productivity,” Marissa explained. “It often resonates with people who feel overwhelmed by modern life and technology and are seeking a sense of groundedness.”

In my personal translation: Cottagecore devotees are likely to have at least one plant they’ve named, know how to make something from scratch (bread, candles, that macramé wall hanging in their apartment), and have probably fantasized about giving it all up to live in a cabin in the woods. They’re the friends who actually remember your birthday and give you homemade gifts that make store-bought presents seem hollow and meaningless.

The potential downside? “There can sometimes be a problematic romanticization of agrarian life without acknowledgment of its hardships,” Marissa pointed out. “And occasionally, an element of escapism that avoids engaging with contemporary issues rather than addressing them.” In other words, actual farming involves a lot more manure and a lot less frolicking in fields at golden hour than the aesthetic would suggest.

We also touched on other popular aesthetics: Coastal Grandmother (for those who find peace in ina Garten energy and harbor fantasies of retiring to beach communities), Y2K revival (often embraced by those too young to remember the collective fashion crimes we committed the first time around), and Barbiecore (which Marissa suggested might appeal to those reclaiming femininity as a source of power rather than limitation).

The conversation took a more interesting turn when we started discussing aesthetic-hoppers—those of us who can’t commit to a single style tribe. I’m raising my hand here as someone whose closet contains both a prairie dress and leather pants with zero irony about either choice.

“Aesthetic fluidity can actually indicate a healthy relationship with self-expression,” Marissa reassured me. “It suggests an adaptability and willingness to let different facets of your personality take center stage depending on context, mood, or need.” So basically, my inability to stick with a consistent look isn’t fashion ADHD—it’s emotional intelligence expressed through clothes. I’m taking that win.

She did point out one fascinating pattern: many people are drawn to aesthetics that express parts of themselves they feel unable to fully embody in their daily lives. The high-powered executive with secret cottagecore Pinterest boards. The shy literature professor with a closet full of bold, maximalist weekend wear. The chaotic creative with a deep appreciation for the clean girl aesthetic they can’t quite maintain.

“Fashion and aesthetic choices can be a way of trying on different versions of ourselves,” Marissa explained. “They’re safe spaces for identity exploration.” Which explains why my most buttoned-up friend has a secret collection of dramatic black capes she never wears in public, and why I still own a pair of sensible pumps despite working in an industry where they’re practically archaic.

The most valuable insight from our conversation had nothing to do with specific aesthetics and everything to do with intention. “The healthiest relationship with any aesthetic comes when you’re choosing it consciously—when you understand what you’re drawn to about it and what needs it’s meeting for you,” Marissa said. “Problems arise when we adopt aesthetics reflexively, without examining why they appeal to us or what they communicate.”

So where does this leave us, besides with several new justifications for our shopping habits? (Kidding. Sort of.) While it’s fun to analyze what our linen pants or tweed blazers might say about our psyches, the reality is more complex than any aesthetic categorization system could capture. We contain multitudes, as Walt Whitman would say, and so do our closets.

What matters most isn’t which aesthetic you choose, but how it makes you feel. Does slicking your hair back into a clean girl bun make you feel put-together when your life is in chaos? Excellent therapeutic use of bobby pins. Does wrapping yourself in a handmade cardigan help you feel connected to tradition in an increasingly digital world? Cottagecore away, my friend. Does donning a blazer with elbow patches make you feel like the main character in your own intellectual coming-of-age story? Dark academia has a space for you in its wood-paneled imaginary library.

Just remember that aesthetics are tools for expression, not boxes for limitation. The moment an aesthetic feels more like a costume than an authentic extension of yourself, it might be time to reconsider your relationship with it.

As for me, I’ll continue to psychoanalyze strangers in coffee shops based on their outfit choices, with the full understanding that the girl in the clean aesthetic might have a chaotic junk drawer at home, the dark academia devotee might secretly love reality TV, and the cottagecore enthusiast might be a tech executive who’s never baked a loaf of bread in her life. The beauty of fashion is that it tells stories—sometimes accurate ones, sometimes aspirational ones, but always human ones. And that complexity is what keeps me coming back, notepad in hand, people-watching from uncomfortable café chairs while my $7 latte gets cold.

Last month during New York Fashion Week, I found myself crammed into the back row of a buzzy designer’s show (name withheld to protect my already tenuous industry relationships), frantically searching through my tote bag while simultaneously trying to appear nonchalant. The lights were dimming, the music was starting, and I couldn’t find my phone to document the collection. As I emptied the contents of my bag onto my lap—lip balm, notebook, approximately 17 crumpled receipts, a granola bar from 2023—a realization slowly dawned on me: there was something else missing, something that had been a constant companion at fashion events for years.

My sunglasses. I had stopped carrying them.

And looking around the room at my fellow editors, I realized I wasn’t alone. The sea of fashion insiders was noticeably lacking the signature accessory that had been our collective armor for at least a decade. The giant, face-obscuring, statement sunglasses that once perched on the noses of every editor, buyer, and influencer were… gone. Not a Celine oversized frame or Loewe geometric shape in sight. Instead, what I saw everywhere were headphones—specifically, the kind of high-quality, noticeably branded over-ear headphones that make it abundantly clear you don’t want to be bothered.

“When did this happen?” I whispered to my colleague Taylor, who was sporting a pair of very obvious Bang & Olufsen headphones around her neck despite being in active conversation with me.

She looked at me like I’d just asked when people started wearing shoes. “Like, at least a year ago? Sunglasses are over. They’re giving 2019 energy.”

And just like that, I realized I’d missed a major accessory shift. Sunglasses—the quintessential fashion editor accessory, the ultimate “don’t talk to me” signal, the perfect way to hide your exhaustion during the 9 AM show after the 2 AM after-party—had been quietly dethroned. In their place reign headphones, worn as visibly and deliberately as any statement necklace or designer bag.

The evidence was suddenly everywhere. The fashion director of a major magazine arrived wearing massive Bottega Veneta green headphones that perfectly matched her Bottega clutch. An influential stylist kept her custom Apple headphones (complete with her monogram, because of course) around her neck throughout an entire presentation, occasionally putting them on when conversation with nearby attendees seemed imminent. Even Anna Wintour’s usual front-row companion had a pair of sleek, all-black headphones resting around her neck—though Anna herself remains loyal to her signature sunglasses, because icons don’t follow trends, they transcend them.

Once I started noticing, I couldn’t stop seeing it. At market appointments, at collection previews, even at fashion week dinners—the headphone had replaced the oversized sunglass as the accessory of choice for the industry’s most influential tastemakers.

To understand when and why this shift occurred, I conducted a highly scientific research study (texted everyone I know in fashion and stalked the Instagram accounts of key editors). The consensus? The changeover began gradually about 18 months ago but reached critical mass around January of this year. The reasons behind it vary, but several key factors emerged.

First, there’s the practical angle. “I realized sunglasses were actually ridiculous at indoor events,” admitted Mia Chen, accessories editor at a publication I’d be fired for naming. “We were all wearing sunglasses inside, at night, trying to see runway collections in already dimly-lit venues. It was objectively stupid.” She now sports a rotation of designer headphones, including a vintage pair of Chanel headphones from the 2014 collection that she found on The RealReal and refuses to tell me how much she paid for.

The functionality of headphones also offers a legitimate excuse for ignoring people, something sunglasses only pretended to do. “With sunglasses, everyone knows you can still see and hear them, you’re just pretending not to,” explained Tyler Jones, a stylist whose work you’ve definitely seen even if you don’t recognize his name. “Headphones create an actual barrier. People have to physically interrupt your music to talk to you, which most won’t do unless it’s important.”

There’s also the matter of cultural relevance. Sunglasses—particularly the oversized, blackout styles favored by the fashion crowd—carry decidedly pre-pandemic associations. They evoke a time of aggressive street style peacocking, of conspicuous fashion week chaos. The headphone aesthetic, by contrast, suggests focused work, careful curation, and selective engagement—values that feel more aligned with fashion’s current, slightly more subdued moment.

“Sunglasses say ‘don’t look at me,’” observed Emma Wright, creative director and longtime fashion week fixture. “Headphones say ‘I’m busy creating.’ It’s a subtle but important difference in the message we’re sending.” She’s recently invested in a pair of headphones from Master & Dynamic’s collaboration with Automobili Lamborghini, which retail for approximately the same as my monthly rent.

The shift also reflects broader changes in how the industry operates. With so much fashion content now created for social media, particularly video content, sunglasses became a liability rather than an asset. They hide too much expression, create reflections, and generally make it harder to connect with an audience. Headphones, meanwhile, can be slipped on and off as needed, or worn around the neck as a styling piece without interfering with content creation.

“I need people to see my eyeshadow on TikTok,” said one beauty editor who asked not to be named, presumably because admitting you care about TikTok still carries a faint stigma in certain fashion circles. “Sunglasses hide half my product placement. Headphones don’t cover anything important and actually look cool on camera.”

The specific types of headphones matter enormously, of course. This isn’t about subtle AirPods or discreet earbuds—the trend explicitly favors large, visible, statement-making over-ear styles that function as recognizable status symbols. The leaders in the fashion headphone race include Apple’s AirPods Max (often in the more unusual colors like sky blue or pink), Bang & Olufsen’s Beoplay range (particularly the lambskin models), Master & Dynamic (especially their collaborations), and vintage finds from fashion house collaborations past.

What doesn’t work: gaming headsets (too aggressively masculine-coded), basic black models without visible branding (what’s the point?), or anything that could be mistaken for the free headphones handed out on international flights.

“I bought a pair specifically to wear between shows,” confessed a junior editor at a major publication. “I don’t even listen to anything most of the time. They’re just not connected to anything.” She then made me swear on my career not to reveal her name, which feels a bit dramatic but also completely in line with how seriously fashion people take their accessories.

The entire shift is remarkably similar to what happened around 2010, when oversized sunglasses replaced the statement necklace as fashion’s accessory of choice. These cyclical accessory revolutions tend to occur when an item becomes so ubiquitous that it loses its impact. Sunglasses had reached such a saturation point—when interns and first-time show attendees are wearing the same accessory as the editor-in-chief, it’s time for the inner circle to move on to something new.

What makes the headphone ascendancy particularly interesting is how it aligns with fashion’s ongoing flirtation with technology. We’ve seen numerous attempts to merge fashion and tech over the years, from the spectacular failure of Google Glass to the limited success of smart watches. Headphones represent perhaps the most natural integration point—they’re already an accessory by nature, with established luxury players in the space and plenty of opportunities for fashion branding.

Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, and Balenciaga have all either collaborated with headphone companies or released their own branded audio products in recent years. Saint Laurent has an ongoing partnership with Beats. Chanel included headphones in their Fall 2014 runway show. The ground was already prepared for this particular accessory shift.

For those looking to participate in the trend without spending four figures, there are entry points at various price levels. The Apple AirPods Max represent the middle of the market at around $550, while brands like Marshall and Urbanista offer fashion-conscious designs for under $300. For the full fashion editor effect, though, it’s worth investing in something with clear luxury signifiers—visible branding, unusual colors or materials, or recognizable design elements.

Or you could take the approach of Zoe Davis, fashion director and street style regular, who wears vintage Sony headphones from the 1980s that she found in her father’s attic. “They don’t actually work anymore,” she told me at a recent fashion week party, “but they look amazing with everything and no one else has them.” The ultimate fashion flex: wearing technology that doesn’t function but looks cooler than everyone else’s working versions.

What about those of us who’ve invested significantly in designer sunglasses over the years? Is our carefully curated collection now obsolete? Not entirely. Sunglasses haven’t disappeared completely—they’ve just been relegated to their original purpose: actually shielding your eyes from the sun in outdoor settings. They’re now viewed as practical accessories rather than fashion statements, worn when genuinely needed rather than as a style signature.

“I still wear sunglasses outside during the day,” noted one editor who has fully embraced the headphone trend. “I just don’t use them as my ‘don’t talk to me’ accessory anymore. For that, I need something more effective.” She then deliberately put her headphones on and ended our conversation, which I have to admit was impressively efficient.

What’s particularly interesting about this accessory shift is how clearly it signals a change in fashion’s relationship with accessibility. Sunglasses, for all their attitude, are fundamentally welcoming—you can still make eye contact (sort of), still hear when someone speaks to you, still engage if you choose to. The rise of headphones suggests a desire for more complete isolation, a more effective barrier between the wearer and the world. It’s fashion’s version of setting your Slack status to “Do Not Disturb.”

I tested this theory at a recent industry event, alternating between wearing my old standby sunglasses and a pair of borrowed headphones (thanks, Taylor). The difference was immediate and undeniable. With sunglasses, people still approached regularly, tapping my arm or simply starting conversations despite my covered eyes. With headphones, the number of interruptions dropped by roughly 70%, and those who did approach started with an apologetic “Sorry to interrupt” rather than launching directly into conversation.

The message was clear: headphones create a more effective force field. In an industry increasingly overwhelmed by content, events, and networking obligations, that extra layer of protection has authentic value.

So what does this mean for the average, non-fashion-industry person? Should everyone rush out to invest in statement headphones? Not necessarily. Like many fashion-editor-specific trends, this one reflects the particular needs and context of the industry rather than broader style currents. If you don’t regularly find yourself in situations where you need to signal “important creative person at work, do not disturb,” oversized headphones might be overkill.

That said, the trickle-down effect is real, and we’re already seeing the influence of this shift in street style and social media. The specific aesthetics—high-quality materials, visible branding, fashion collaborations—are likely to influence headphone design at all price points in coming seasons. If you’re in the market for new headphones anyway, considering their visual impact alongside their audio quality isn’t a bad approach.

As for me, I’ve dug out an old pair of Bang & Olufsen headphones that I bought years ago for plane travel and never really used. They’re not the latest model or the most fashion-forward color, but they’re recognizable enough to signal that I’m at least aware of the shift. I wore them to a press preview last week, and three different people commented on them approvingly. Not quite the same approval rating as my former statement sunglasses used to get, but it’s a start.

The ultimate irony, of course, is that by the time this article is published, fashion editors will probably have moved on to some entirely different accessory. That’s the nature of these industry-specific trends—they move quickly precisely because they’re adopted by people whose job is to stay ahead of the curve.

For now, though, if you see a group of fashionable people wearing elaborate headphones at an indoor event in the middle of the day, don’t be confused. They’re not all listening to the same podcast. They’re just sending a clearer message than sunglasses ever could: unless you have something really important to say, save it for the Instagram DM.

Last week, I was doomscrolling through runway photos at 1 AM (a professional obligation, I tell myself, though my therapist disagrees) when something stopped my thumb mid-swipe. There on my screen, from a designer known for forward-thinking minimalism, was a model wearing the most magnificent pair of… galaxy print leggings.

Not subtle celestial references. Not elevated astronomical motifs. Straight-up, in-your-face, cosmic nebula leggings that looked teleported directly from a 2012 Tumblr dashboard.

I sat up so fast I knocked my water glass onto my white duvet (a poor choice for someone who regularly eats chocolate in bed, but I’m nothing if not optimistic). Was I hallucinating? Had I somehow opened a time portal to the Black Milk Clothing heyday? Were we really revisiting the era when you couldn’t walk through an Urban Outfitters without being assaulted by the Milky Way printed on everything from pencil cases to platform sneakers?

“Emma,” I texted, knowing she’d still be awake critiquing dating profiles with the same ruthless precision she applies to hemlines. “Am I losing my mind or is galaxy print coming back?”

Her response: “Just saw three different fashion assistants wearing cosmic print at the Proenza showroom yesterday. It’s happening. God help us all.”

For those who weren’t chronically online during the early 2010s, let me explain the cultural significance of galaxy print. Emerging around 2011 and reaching peak saturation around 2013-2014, these cosmic-themed textiles featured swirling nebulae, stars, and planetary imagery in hyper-saturated blues, purples, and pinks. The aesthetic was maximalist, digital, and distinctly tied to early Tumblr culture—a time when Jeffrey Campbell Litas, circle skirts, and galaxy leggings constituted the unofficial uniform of the platform’s most reblogged style icons.

Galaxy print wasn’t just a pattern—it was a full-blown phenomenon that represented a particular moment in internet culture when the boundaries between online aesthetic communities and mainstream fashion were starting to blur. The print was democratic in its appeal, appearing on everything from $15 Forever 21 leggings to runway pieces. It symbolized a certain digital utopianism—a starry-eyed optimism about technology and self-expression that feels almost painfully naive from our current vantage point.

And then, like most trends that burn too brightly, it disappeared almost completely. By 2015, wearing galaxy print was the fashion equivalent of admitting you still used a Hotmail address. It was relegated to the same category as owl pendants, mustache motifs, and those plastic neon bracelets shaped like animals—artifacts from a more innocent internet era that fashion collectively decided to leave behind.

Until now, apparently.

“I started noticing it a few months ago in very specific corners of the fashion universe,” Simone told me when I cornered her in the office kitchen to confirm my cosmic sighting wasn’t isolated. “It began with smaller independent designers who were teenagers during the original trend. There’s this whole generation of emerging designers who experienced galaxy print during their formative style years and are reinterpreting it through a new lens.”

She’s right. The revival isn’t a direct copy-and-paste of the 2012 version but rather a knowing reference—often more abstracted, sometimes more technically advanced, and usually paired with contemporary silhouettes rather than the skater skirts and leggings of its first incarnation.

Take Stella Wang, the 26-year-old designer whose ethereal dresses have been worn by everyone from indie musicians to A-list actresses. Her latest collection features hand-dyed silk that creates cosmic-inspired patterns, but with a more sophisticated color palette and paired with distinctly 2020s silhouettes. When I interviewed her about the collection, she was refreshingly straightforward about the inspiration.

“Of course I’m referencing the galaxy print era,” she admitted. “I was 14 when everyone was wearing those leggings. It was the first time I saw people expressing themselves through these digital-inspired patterns that felt both futuristic and emotional. The execution wasn’t always sophisticated, but the impulse behind it was genuinely exciting.”

That’s the key difference in how this revival is emerging. The original galaxy print trend was often dismissed by fashion insiders as a juvenile internet aesthetic without deeper significance. The revival comes with context, critical distance, and a generation of designers who understand its place in the evolution of digital culture and fashion.

Even major fashion houses are experimenting with cosmic references. At Paris Fashion Week, a luxury brand known for sculptural minimalism sent several looks down the runway featuring abstract digital prints that unmistakably nodded to the galaxy trend, though they described it in press materials as “an exploration of the tension between the digital and physical realms through abstracted celestial imagery.” Fashion-speak for “yes, we’re doing galaxy print, but make it expensive.”

The revival is happening in street style too. During New York Fashion Week, I spotted at least a dozen instances of the cosmic aesthetic—from subtle galaxy-printed accessories paired with otherwise minimal outfits to full-commitment cosmic dresses that looked ready for interplanetary travel. What stood out was how the wearers were styling these pieces—not with the Tumblr-era accompaniments like combat boots and beanies, but with tailored blazers, sleek leather accessories, and an overall more sophisticated approach.

Katherine, our razor-sharp accessories editor who has an almost supernatural ability to predict revival trends, has been tracking this cosmic resurgence for months. “It’s following the classic pattern of once-reviled trends returning: first ironically, then nostalgically, then sincerely,” she explained. “Right now we’re between the ironic and nostalgic phases. By next spring, it’ll be completely normalized.”

The timing makes sense from a generational perspective. The original galaxy print peak happened about a decade ago—exactly the timeframe when fashion typically begins its nostalgic revivals. The twenty-somethings who were teenagers during the first cosmic wave are now working designers, stylists, and influencers with the power to reintroduce aesthetics from their youth.

There’s also a certain escapism in the revival that feels appropriate for our current moment. After years of minimal neutrals dominating fashion, the return to an unabashedly digital, colorful, space-themed aesthetic offers a kind of visual relief—a welcome departure from beige cashmere into something more imaginative.

“Fashion reflects our collective psychological state,” suggested Tyler, a cultural critic I cornered at a gallery opening last week specifically to discuss the cosmic comeback. “The original galaxy print moment coincided with a time of digital optimism—when social media still felt like a positive force and technology seemed full of utopian potential. Perhaps this revival reflects a desire to recapture some of that optimism, even if we now approach it with more awareness of technology’s complexities.”

That’s certainly how Jada Green, a 24-year-old designer whose galaxy-inspired collection has been gaining significant industry attention, frames her work. “I’m not naive about the digital world the way we were in 2012,” she told me during a studio visit. “But there’s something powerful about reclaiming that sense of cosmic possibility and applying it with the knowledge we have now. These prints are like digital artifacts from a more hopeful internet era.”

Green’s pieces highlight how the technical execution has evolved since the original trend. Where the first wave often featured digital prints that simply transferred cosmic imagery onto fabric, today’s designers are using more sophisticated techniques—hand dyeing that mimics celestial formations, digital weaving that creates nebula-like textures, and printing methods that give depth and dimension beyond what was possible a decade ago.

The styling has evolved significantly too. “The first time around, galaxy print was usually the star of a very busy outfit,” noted Emma, who admits to owning three pairs of cosmic leggings during their heyday. “Now it’s being treated more like an abstract print—something that can be incorporated into otherwise minimal outfits or paired with tailored pieces for contrast.”

This more sophisticated integration is key to the trend’s current revival. At a recent industry dinner, I sat across from a fashion director wearing a simple black suit with a galaxy-printed silk camisole visible beneath the blazer—a subtle nod to the trend that felt miles away from its original implementation.

Interestingly, the return of galaxy print has split the fashion community along generational lines. Those who were already working adults during its first incarnation often view the revival with a mixture of horror and resignation, while those who experienced it during their formative years approach it with knowing nostalgia, and Gen Z newcomers—who missed it entirely the first time—embrace it with fresh enthusiasm.

“I literally burned my galaxy leggings in a ceremonial backyard bonfire when they went out of style,” confessed a 35-year-old stylist friend who has requested anonymity to protect her professional reputation. “Now my assistant is wearing cosmic print blazers to client meetings. It’s triggering my fashion PTSD.”

Meanwhile, 21-year-old fashion student Maya Chen sees the aesthetic with fresh eyes. “I’ve been exploring it through vintage shopping,” she told me after a chance encounter at a secondhand store where we both reached for the same cosmic-printed scarf. “It feels retro but also futuristic, which is a really interesting tension.”

That tension between nostalgia and futurism makes the galaxy print revival different from other trend resurrections. Unlike, say, the return of Y2K fashion—which is primarily an exercise in nostalgia—cosmic prints exist in this strange liminal space between looking backward and looking forward. They reference both a specific moment in internet history and the timeless human fascination with space.

The cosmic comeback also reflects how digital culture has matured. In 2012, the line between “internet fashion” and “real fashion” was still distinct. Galaxy print, along with other Tumblr-born aesthetics, existed somewhat outside mainstream fashion’s approval. Today, that boundary has completely dissolved. Digital-native aesthetics are fashion, full stop.

For those curious about dipping a toe back into the cosmic waters but wary of looking like they’ve time-traveled from 2012, there are more subtle entry points. Accessories offer one approach—a galaxy-printed scarf, a small cosmic-patterned bag, or even phone cases (though please, for the love of all things stylish, not with an inspirational quote overlaid on the cosmos).

Another strategy is to look for pieces that reference the aesthetic obliquely rather than literally—garments with color gradients reminiscent of nebulae, abstract prints that evoke cosmic imagery without being direct representations, or textured fabrics that create a three-dimensional cosmic effect.

The most sophisticated takes on the trend integrate the cosmic element as just one component of an otherwise grounded outfit—pairing a galaxy-printed silk shirt with perfectly tailored wool trousers, for instance, or layering a cosmic-patterned dress under a structured blazer.

“The key is to wear it like you’re in on the reference without being consumed by it,” advised Katherine. “You want to look like you’re making a knowing fashion choice, not like you never cleaned out your closet from 2013.”

As with all trend revivals, there’s the inevitable question of whether some things are better left in the past. Does galaxy print deserve this second chance at fashion relevance? The verdict is still out, but what’s certain is that its return tells us something interesting about how digital culture, nostalgia, and fashion are increasingly intertwined.

“Fashion has always recycled itself, but the speed has accelerated dramatically in the digital era,” noted Simone. “We’re now seeing trends return before many of us have even properly processed their first iteration. It creates this interesting collapsed timeline where original and revival exist almost simultaneously in the collective consciousness.”

She’s right. The distance between galaxy print as current trend and galaxy print as nostalgic reference point feels unnervingly short. Perhaps that’s the nature of fashion in the digital age—trends don’t so much die as enter a kind of suspended animation, ready to be reactivated when the cultural algorithm cycles back around.

So will I be embracing the cosmic comeback? I’ve been asking myself this question since spotting those runway leggings. On one hand, I lived through the original trend and still have mild PTSD from the oversaturation. On the other hand, the newer, more sophisticated interpretations are genuinely intriguing.

Last weekend, I found myself in a vintage store in Williamsburg, holding a silk scarf with a subtle cosmic print in surprisingly sophisticated navy and silver tones. It was clearly from the original trend era but felt timeless in a way most galaxy items didn’t. I bought it—a small concession to the revival that felt like an appropriate acknowledgment without full commitment.

When I wore it knotted at my neck with a simple black turtleneck to an editorial meeting, Katherine immediately noticed. “Cosmic chic,” she said with an approving nod. “Very 2024 way to do 2012.”

And perhaps that’s the essence of this particular revival—not just bringing back a specific print, but revisiting the digital optimism of an earlier internet era through a more sophisticated, self-aware lens. In a time when our relationship with technology has grown increasingly complicated, there’s something poignant about reclaiming the starry-eyed digital aesthetics of a more innocent time.

Just please, I beg you, don’t pair your galaxy print with a mustache necklace. Some revivals are a bridge too far.