Last year ended with a type of fashion revelation that suited a year oft compared to a raging garbage fire: Low-rise jeans are coming back.

The fault was our own, as a people. I mean, yes, in November, Jennifer Lopez was seen wearing a pair of wide-leg thong pants, first spotted on the Natasha Zinko runway in February. But even before that, brands like Kith Sport, Baja East, Fenty Puma by Rihanna, and Tom Ford had used their spring 2018 collections to reintroduce the style (“style”) most of us left in both the past and our nightmares. Alas, the momentum kept building: Kirk Miller of Linder NYC used both the spring 2018 and spring 2019 runways to pair low-rise bottoms with visible bikini bottoms or undergarments.

In December, Miller told The Cut that he felt the look would likely be popular with those who embrace wearable irony. And that makes sense: For years we’ve romanticized all aspects of ’90s style, so the trash-tastic first decade of the 200s are naturally what’s next. It didn’t take long for this trend (“trend”) to spread beyond the runways, with brands like Abercrombie & Fitch, Current/Elliott, and AMO as well as influencers like the Hadid sisters letting low-rise jeans into their hearts (Hadid sisters) and upcoming collections (Abercrombie & Fitch, Current/Elliott, and AMO.)

This was a horrifying development for those of us who lived through the aughts of the 2000s.

My own teens and early twenties were defined by pants inspired by 2003 Britney or Stripped-Era Christina. I looked to Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Mischa Barton as fashion gods. I lived for nights out where I could pair distressed low-rise denim with pointy-toe kitten heels and belts that looked like neckties. (FASHION!)

Of course, as the dawn of the 2010s approached, I began to grow out of the style that defined part of my youth, as one tends to do. I welcomed higher rises and skinny-legged jeans with open arms, and vowed never to wear anything that required me to put real thought into what underwear I was wearing (outside of whether it was comfortable and I liked it). In short, I graduated to adulthood.

What’s shocking about the low-rise comeback is that we’re shocked at all. As the cliché goes, everything old is new again. The cyclical nature of trends dictates that at some point, we’ll come face-to-face with the worst parts of our pasts, or at least the styles some of us (hi) equate most with being young, foolish, and hopelessly unaware that just because a type of pants exists doesn’t mean you have to wear it.

But recognizing that trends are cyclical doesn’t make the resurrection of one any easier. Graduating to adulthood meant that we got to leave low-rise jeans in our youths, nestled among our comically tiny purses and Von Dutch hats. It feels too soon to be reminded of who we used to be—or for our earnest attempts at Fashion™ to be worn today as irony.

I think that partly explains the backlash (and quiet obsession) with the comeback of the low-rise jean, and why the internet quickly begged the fashion gods to reconsider. But as much as I’ve learned from my past fashion mistakes, I’m—wait for it—welcoming the new low-rise trend.

For one, the 2019 version of the low-rise jean suggests that there’s a way to participate in the trend without wearing yours with 42 henleys or polo shirts—nor do your pants need to be too tight and too flared. These updated styles reflect a more relaxed approach: wider legs, looser fits, an invitation to dress denim up or down. Models like Joyce Mao, Fran Summers, and Lakshmi Menon have started incorporating it into their off-duty looks, with button-down shirts and flat sandals or minimal tube tops and sneakers, in a way that’s understated—and un-ironic. (For the record, some brands now refer to them as low-slung jeans.)

More importantly, though, the way we talk about fashion has changed. Unlike in the aughts, there’s less of a zest for fashion police, and there’s also less pressure to favor a particular trend merely because everybody else is. In 2019, fashion has come to prioritize the self-expression over glorified style rules; we’re freer to choose clothes that fit our body rather than force our body to fit the clothes. We feel more agency to decide what we wear.

Ten years ago it was common to emulate famous style stars, to pour ourselves into a mold and hope we emerge looking A-list (whatever that means). But today famous people are an aesthetic jumping-off point. Bella Hadid may wear low-rise jeans with a cropped button-up, but her approach to pants represents one choice. J.Lo may don a low-rise wide-leg trouser with a visible thong, but that’s merely another example of how they can work.

It’s not like anyone is telling us to fish our kitten heels, pastel polos (layered, of course), and necktie belts out of the closet and begin dressing the way we did before we found the pieces that made us feel best. Low-rise pants in 2019 can be as ironic, as bold, or as exhibitionist as you want. Kind of how “nineties style” doesn’t consist only of floral babydoll dresses or bucket hats and Adidas pants.

If, like me, you know you can’t go back to wearing the same pieces you did over a decade ago, don’t. Our own personal fashion condemnations can be our own, but they shouldn’t dictate fashion norms. After all, who are any of us to deprive someone from experiencing the low-rise? How else will we learn?

Anne T. Donahue is a writer based in Toronto. Follow her on Twitter at @annetdonahue.

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