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At my journalism school, there was a running joke that no student reporting for the local newspaper could escape without being assigned an obituary. I, unintentionally, evaded that rite of passage, but now, years after graduation, here I am: writing an obit.
Word started spreading that Forever 21 might close earlier this spring, but when it was officially confirmed last week that all its stores are shuttering, I was surprised by my own complicated feelings. As far as humanity goes, its collapse is probably a good thing, right? The news gives me the slightest sliver of hope that maybe fast fashion could go extinct eventually.
But if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that will always appreciate Forever 21. Without its reliable presence in my adolescence, I’m not sure how—or even if!—I would have developed a love of fashion. Every cut, color, or motif was at the ready and, even more incredible to my underdeveloped brain, affordable for the salary of a part-time babysitter, full-time hormonal nightmare. I could devour my beloved magazines, and then go to the mall and buy the same clothes that my tween icons like Selena Gomez or Raven-Symoné wore. A dream! There was always something new to see, and no sooner would a trend hit the zeitgeist than land promptly on Forever 21’s plentiful racks. Now I understand this business model is terrible for the planet writ large, but in the moment, that store felt like wonderland to junior-high Meg. It democratized fashion, and in doing so, gave me the space and opportunity to explore, experiment (with some diabolical results), and ultimately establish a sense of personal style.
I know I’m not alone in this, either. A trip to Forever 21 was usually a full friend-group affair. We would go in with a game plan. In a store that big, the strategy had to be divide and conquer. It’s not an overstatement to say it’s where I learned to shop. And look at me now: I’m a shopping editor. It’s the first place where I grasped what I liked and didn’t like, what suited me and what didn’t. There’s a fine (but definitive) line between existing as a girl, who doesn’t think about how she presents herself, and being a young woman, keenly aware of how often she’s being perceived. I suspect that for most people, it’s nearly impossible to go back in time and name when the switch occurred. But for me, there’s no doubt—it was in Forever 21. It became my workshop, a place to figure out how I wanted to be seen by the world around me.
Now, high schoolers get TikTok-famous for thrifting designer bags or schooling millennials on the bleak reality of sweatshops. And this is the lesser of the two evils, I’m sure. But I can’t help but memorialize the once-iconic mall brand just a little before it fades into complete obscurity. It did at least one good thing for at least one person. It’s where my sense of self began.
I’ll take comfort knowing some of you will get it. I won’t be the only one who remembers this store years down the line when my grandkids ask me about the inexplicably bad style of the 2000s and 2010s—about the random obsession with tacos and sugar skulls. It’ll live vividly in my memory: Forever 14, heart pounding as I debated shoplifting during my rebellious phase. Forever 17, waging war against my body in the fitting room mirrors. Forever 19, hunting for the right pieces to pack for my freshman year of college—my first taste of adulthood. And, yes, forever 21, clueless and earnest and just trying to find my way.
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