She is, depending on the media you consume, most famous either for being an agent of discord within the royal household, or the underdog who liberated herself from its constraints. And yet Meghan Markle—arguably the most scrutinized woman in modern media—possesses the frictionless taste of a lifestyle influencer. I was reminded of this while watching the holiday special of her Netflix show, With Love, Meghan, in which she educates viewers on various ways to “delight and surprise” loved ones: making advent calendars for her kids that, instead of chocolates, conceal handwritten notes; or preparing a salad composed of ingredients Prince Harry hates.
Which makes the show sound interesting, when in reality, it is so scrubbed of any conflict or tension that even a badly assembled Christmas cracker is presented as a symbol of “the perfect imperfection that comes from human connection,” as one guest star, the restaurateur Will Guidara, puts it—and to which Markle replies with an almost slack-jawed, “Yes!” I loved every second of these revelations: when she says that “a tradition has to have a beginning”, or that “a tree is part of my memory and love of the holiday season.” There’s a pleasing, narcoticizing effect to the whole thing, not unlike slipping into The Row’s Bowie cashmere sweater in the shade “Natural”—which Markle does, to teach us how to assemble a crudité wreath (i.e. putting bits of tenderstem broccoli into a circle shape on a plate).
This pivot to whimsical domestic guru will surprise no one familiar with The Tig—the self-authored blog where Markle shared easy recipes, travel guides, and fashion tips between 2014 and 2017, before she was reportedly told to shutter it upon joining the Firm. With Love, Meghan—and its companion brand, As Ever—offers her a chance to resolve that unfinished chapter with every jar of home-brewed honey. It’s also why the project feels so rooted in the millennial moment. Look through any of the screenshots of The Tig that exist online, and you will see that the core elements of Markle’s style have remained unchanged: the organic hues (“Play with soft neutrals like light grey and cream and keep the look monochromatic”); the Panama hats (“Lord knows I love a hat”); the jumpsuits (“If you’re smaller, opt for a sleeveless, more basic version since it’ll draw the eyes towards your legs.”)
The list goes on. But what the blog also shows is that Markle has always had aspirations—or at least an interest—in being part of the fashion establishment. She diarizes her time at New York Fashion Week, breaks down contemporary street-style trends, and pens reports of Paris Fashion Week, despite never actually having attended. (No shade: I am paid to do just that.) In one post, she reviews Valentino’s spring 2015 collection, noting the “beautiful minidresses red carpet-worthy gowns” that Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli set forth on the runway. Never mind that Chiuri would put her in custom Dior for a service at St Paul’s Cathedral honouring the late Queen Elizabeth II’s jubilee in 2022—she was, remarkably, and nearly 10 years to the date, the guest of honour at Piccioli’s debut for Balenciaga at the spring 2026 edition of Paris Fashion Week.
Not since the Queen’s passing had the Vogue team rallied with such urgency. Even I—a royal- and, to be honest, fame-agnostic editor (which makes me very interesting, I know)—let out a small gasp when Markle made a last-minute entrance on the Balenciaga livestream, dressed in an oversized ivory button-down, wide-legged trousers, and one great swag of a wraparound shawl, a messianic version of her clean-lined Montecito casuals. Because wasn’t she supposed to be pressing flowers or something? Wasn’t she too famous to want to be there? It was, perhaps, the most successful PR coup of 2025: the world’s most talked-about woman, seldom encountered without a heavy tinkering of stage management, shifting the fashion-week hierarchy so dramatically that even the VIPs became spectators. Not Rihanna. Not Beyoncé. Not even Taylor Swift could wield that much power in a room.
It worked both ways: Piccioli’s debut became a focal point in a season saturated with more than a dozen designer arrivals, while Markle consolidated her position within the contemporary cultural elite. No longer simply an actress, a scorned royal, an ultra-wealthy founder, or a relatable momfluencer previously selling striped Ralph Lauren shirts via ShopMy, but a unilateral superpower able to glide between charitable summits, most-watched lists, front rows, and Kris Jenner’s parties. (Now there’s a woman who knows a thing or two about rebranding.) By the time Markle had changed into her second look of the night—a black, caped dress at the after-party—the prevailing observation was that something iconic had happened. That a line had been crossed. That a post-palace Markle had been legitimised on fashion’s biggest stage.
She should not do it again—or at least not for a very long time—since it was precisely her withholding from these industry-facing events that made the appearance feel so illicit. It demonstrated that Markle is more than the woman the press has allowed her to become. That she is ultimately more than the accessible, algorithm-friendly Sézane T-shirts, Dôen midi-skirts, and SeaVees rain boots—albeit elevated with Cartier bracelets and Hermès sandals—and that she is now opening herself up to what she once admired on The Tig as “champagne chic”: a status that is, crucially, conferred rather than inherited. If the royal family represents symbolic capital, fashion operates on cultural capital, and Meghan’s motive since relinquishing her HRH title has been converting the one into the other. As she, herself, wrote, all those years ago: “I happen to love all things chic, and I certainly have a propensity for embracing all things Francophile.” Don’t be surprised if (and I mean if) she climbs the steps of the 2026 Met Gala in a custom Balenciaga gown.