The moment orange clicked for me was a rust toned midi dress I wore with brown boots and gold hoops to a friend's birthday lunch, no cardigan, nothing to soften it. I'd expected to feel like a traffic cone. Instead three different people asked where it was from, and I spent the walk home thinking I'd ignored a whole colour for years for no good reason.
Orange does not want company. Pair it with anything else bright, pink, red, another orange a shade off, and it stops looking confident and starts looking like a mistake at the dry cleaners. Keep the rest of the outfit quiet, neutral shoes, a plain bag, and it holds together. It also has strong opinions about gold jewellery over silver, silver tends to look slightly wrong against it, like you grabbed the first thing in the drawer. On me, a true orange midi lands as a maxi, so I'd always check the length before assuming it'll behave.
Where it falls short is anywhere you want to disappear, which sounds obvious written down but I've learned it the hard way more than once. A work meeting where you're presenting something awkward is not the day for burnt orange, it draws every eye in the room and not always in your favour. It's also not forgiving on fabric that creases, I had a cheap orange dress that came out of a weekend bag looking like it had been through a hedge, and no amount of hanging it in the bathroom while the shower ran sorted it out. The brighter, more neon end of orange fades fastest in the wash too, three or four goes and it's a slightly sad version of itself, so I only buy that shade if I've checked the label properly. Terracotta and rust hold their colour far better over a season, and they're the shades I'd actually trust to still look good after fifteen washes and a few summers of being stuffed in a holdall. Burnt orange sits between the two, lovely but it does ask a bit more care of you.
This is a colour for someone who wants to be noticed without saying a word, the woman who'll happily be the brightest thing in the room and actually means to be.