Upon endless rows of hangers droop Gucci jumpers, Louis Vuitton T-shirts, and Tom Ford jackets. Stacked upon shelves are Valentino sneakers, Saint Laurent totes, and Balenciaga caps. Collector’s items like the Versace bathrobe are displayed in a glass closet in the corner, its hand-stitched golden logo dazzling against the plush Egyptian cotton. The still-intact tag with its preposterous price of $50,000 is my ticket to teenage royalty.

My dressing room is full of what most kids my age would only dream of — the latest collection from the hottest designers in the world. But the truth is, I didn’t purchase a single one of them. In fact, I had never even asked for any of them. At the courtesy of my cousin Minseok, the son of a Korean mega- conglomerate listed in Forbes as one of the richest men in the country and consequently a VIP customer at every high-end brand and department store in Seoul, my room was routinely bombarded with shopping bags full of luxury goods that were the by-products of Minseok’s revenge spending (he claims he did not receive enough love from his parents while growing up).

And I, his sole beneficiary, received social free-passes in the form of cashmere sweaters, designer sweats, and Swarovski-studded sneakers, which I wore to school every day. I could feel envious eyes following me down the hallway — and I have to admit, I enjoyed every bit of it.

To maintain my status as the school stud, I kept up with the latest luxury fashion trends by scanning fashion magazines every chance I got. Until one day, I came across an article that turned my life, and closet, upside down.

I rarely ventured into the opinion articles when flipping through magazines, but the piercing gaze of a skinned alligator head caught my eye. Disturbed and entranced, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the report on the luxury fashion industry’s responsibility for deforestation and habitat destruction through the sourcing of exotic animal skins. Moreover, the production and transportation of said cruelty products to department stores around the world also contributed to greenhouse gas emissions and air pollution. But what shocked me the most was the fact that the industry routinely incinerates said products, made at the price of blood, sweat, tears — and the environment — to create high demand and to meet it at an even higher price.

Because these clothes had been made so readily available to me, literally delivered to my very doorstep, I had never bothered to think of the ramifications of such excessive consumption of clothes. Although I myself was not the direct consumer, I was just as guilty for enabling my cousin’s irrational consumption by gladly taking all the clothes he no longer wanted. And somewhere across the globe, there were lives being sacrificed and forests being burned down for it.

I looked down at the new pair of leather boots on my feet. They had never seemed so ugly. And it was from that point on that I began to see that it was not me my classmates were interested in — they were staring at my clothes, the labels. My words fell on deaf ears as all their attention was focused on scanning my outfit from head to toe. No one bothered to find out who I was or what I was like. Everywhere I went, I was just labeled as the rich, spoiled kid that only wore expensive clothes.

And the sad thing was, it was not me that wore them. It was the clothes that wore me.

As much as I wanted to tear these labels off my shoulders, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Over the years, my outfits had become a facade behind which I found strange comfort in. When I slipped on my new designer jeans, I knew people would see and comment on the design and price, but the conversations were never directed at me, personally. Behind the labels, I did not have to face other people’s judgment and criticisms. It was so much easier to live in the clothes I wore rather than having to bare myself to the world. But I knew my shell had to be broken one way or another. I could feel my self-identity festering from within, and the lifeless gaze of an alligator was the final push I needed.

The next day, I dressed in a plain white T-shirt and joggers to school. When I walked down the hallway past my classmates, they didn’t even recognize me.

I had never felt as liberated as I did then. For the first time, I felt comfortable in my own skin.