How Fashion Taught Me to Embrace My Identity as a Person of Color
As a person of colour, born in China and living in Australia, fashion has always carried a few extra layers of complexity for me.
I recently resigned from my job and returned to China — the “homeland” I had spent the past ten years trying to escape.
I landed in my hometown, a small city close to Shanghai, Hangzhou, and Nanjing, yet far from their open-mindedness.
This time, without my mother’s reminders, I put on a bra every time I went out, took off my nose piercings, and left my avant-garde clothes in the corner of the closet. I know it’s not because I’m no longer rebellious, but because I finally realized — years of resistance have meant nothing to them.
Every time I return home, my relatives greet me with the same familiar Chinese-style comments:
“You’ve gained weight.”
“You’ve gotten darker.”
Chinese people tend to comment on appearance before asking about your life. I hate this custom, and though I always fight back, nothing ever changes. So now, I minimize the things about my appearance that might invite their scrutiny — but like sneaky foxes, they still find something to comment on.
“You have a mustache on your chin!”, they say. How could they even see that!?
They will never change — and neither will I, deep down. But I’ve come to understand that in this place, resistance — for now — has no meaning.
The Legging War
A few years ago, when the Lululemon leggings trend swept through Australia, I came home wearing a pair. My mother forbade me to wear them outside and even started a war over it.
I remember her pointing at my pants, her face pale and her voice trembling:“Going out like that is indecent — you’ll bring shame to me.”
But a year later, when the trend finally reached China, she began wearing leggings herself. I realized what she couldn’t tolerate wasn’t the leggings themselves, but the fact that I was the first — the first to wear them, the first to break the rules, the first to step out.
Once society gave its “permission,” she could follow without fear. For a long time, I thought my mother had become more open-minded. But her openness only followed the direction of trends and the majority.
Between Two Fears
Our arguments were never truly hostile. They were reflections of women’s shared struggles across generations — a small portrait of cultural conflict between eras.
My mother feared losing face; I feared being repressed. Both fears were born from the same society — one that never truly taught women how to love their own bodies.
When leggings became mainstream — when celebrities and influencers began wearing them — my mother began to wear them too. External authority had replaced personal judgment.
In the China she grew up in, women’s bodies were never meant to be seen. “Modesty,” “decency,” and “propriety” defined morality and acceptance. She didn’t fear the clothes — she feared the gaze.
But when the media and capital began to label those same clothes “chic,” “healthy,” and “elegant,” the body once condemned as “shameless” suddenly became fashionable.
This is a classic social translation — from shame to style.In a country where feminism remains muted, the absence of individual aesthetic sovereignty still dominates. That’s why “following trends” remains the norm.
What we “can” or “cannot” wear is rarely decided by ourselves — it is authorized by the trend itself. My mother hasn’t truly changed her beliefs; she’s simply shifted from moral discipline to fashion discipline.
China still worships the aesthetic of “white, thin, and young.” Though the media promotes a so-called “healthy aesthetic,” in real life it’s far from accepted. This reflects the psychology of Chinese fashion culture — from shame to acceptance, from resisting the body to mimicking trends, yet still missing self-recognition and subjectivity.
Chinese fashion hasn’t evolved from “closed” to “open.” It still swings between the gaze of others and the desire for self-expression.
Leaving and Imitating
When I was eighteen, I forged my mother’s signature, dropped out of a top Chinese university, and set off backpacking. It was my first declaration of sovereignty over my body and my destiny.
In a society where “obedience” is a moral virtue, it was my first act of rebellion — my first attempt to choose my own life.
For the first time, I felt in control.
It was also the first time I asked myself: “Who am I?”
I began to resist social order through my appearance — dyeing my hair, wearing short skirts, piercing my ears, tattooing my skin. Each act was a way to reclaim ownership of my body.
At twenty-one, I moved to Australia and began imitating local trendsetters to blend in. When I started to look more like them, I thought it meant freedom. But I realized I was still an outsider — a gap I could never cross. Outwardly, I looked assimilated; inwardly, I was still following, still seeking approval.
Fashion, I learned, thrives on constant novelty — not only in style, but in thought and rhythm. I was afraid of falling behind.
In recent years, a voice inside me keeps asking: “Who am I, really?” It seems my aesthetic logic was still being shaped by a gaze — this time, by white society.
In China, pale skin represents elegance, status, and civilization — proximity to the West.In Australia, tanned skin represents confidence, vitality, and wealth — yet another capitalist ideal.
I thought I was chasing different kinds of beauty, but they all revolved around the same center.I escaped Eastern morality, only to be judged by Western standards.
There is never freedom.
My Chineseness
Living abroad, I finally understood how complex “Chineseness” is.
It’s not about skin color or tradition — it’s a deeply internalized posture: an instinct to restrain oneself, to stay quiet, to blend in under any circumstance.
After graduation, I joined an Australian company, chasing the dream of becoming a “successful professional.” But I slowly realized that my ambition and desire were really about seeking validation from white society. I had tied my self-worth to capital — and worse, to the gaze of others.
Third Culture Identities
When I travel, my style shifts to match the local gaze.I wear an East Asian face but speak with hybrid accents. I belong neither here nor there.
Between globalization and tradition, many people like me drift without anchor. The world’s fashion and culture are still dominated by whiteness — a legacy of colonialism and capitalism intertwined.
Yet, a third culture is emerging.We no longer seek to return to a “pure East,” nor to imitate the “advanced West.” We exist in the tension between both, creating new ways of being.
To do that, we must shed internalized colonial shame and stop seeing ourselves through others’ eyes. Fashion, after all, runs far deeper than it appears.
Fashion, for Me
Sometimes I think back to those old arguments with my mother — the fights over what I should or shouldn’t wear. She called me “improper.” I called her “conservative.”
Now I see we were simply standing on opposite sides of the same cultural storm. She was tamed by morality; I was captured by fashion trends.But this year, I’ve begun to understand: I no longer need imitation to prove anything.I can choose different styles, move freely between two worlds — or belong to neither.
I no longer dress to conform to anyone’s order; I dress to find my own shape in the world.
Fashion is the softest yet most secret form of power. It teaches me how to be seen — and how to censor myself. We think we are pursuing individuality, but in truth, we are often just learning how to belong.
People used to say fashion is anti-utopian and anti-authoritarian.For me, it is a way of speaking to the world — and the space where I learn, between freedom and order, to wear my contradictions with pride.
I landed in my hometown, a small city close to Shanghai, Hangzhou, and Nanjing, yet far from their open-mindedness.
This time, without my mother’s reminders, I put on a bra every time I went out, took off my nose piercings, and left my avant-garde clothes in the corner of the closet. I know it’s not because I’m no longer rebellious, but because I finally realized — years of resistance have meant nothing to them.
Every time I return home, my relatives greet me with the same familiar Chinese-style comments:
“You’ve gained weight.”
“You’ve gotten darker.”
Chinese people tend to comment on appearance before asking about your life. I hate this custom, and though I always fight back, nothing ever changes. So now, I minimize the things about my appearance that might invite their scrutiny — but like sneaky foxes, they still find something to comment on.
“You have a mustache on your chin!”, they say. How could they even see that!?
They will never change — and neither will I, deep down. But I’ve come to understand that in this place, resistance — for now — has no meaning.
The Legging War
A few years ago, when the Lululemon leggings trend swept through Australia, I came home wearing a pair. My mother forbade me to wear them outside and even started a war over it.
I remember her pointing at my pants, her face pale and her voice trembling:“Going out like that is indecent — you’ll bring shame to me.”
But a year later, when the trend finally reached China, she began wearing leggings herself. I realized what she couldn’t tolerate wasn’t the leggings themselves, but the fact that I was the first — the first to wear them, the first to break the rules, the first to step out.
Once society gave its “permission,” she could follow without fear. For a long time, I thought my mother had become more open-minded. But her openness only followed the direction of trends and the majority.
Between Two Fears
Our arguments were never truly hostile. They were reflections of women’s shared struggles across generations — a small portrait of cultural conflict between eras.
My mother feared losing face; I feared being repressed. Both fears were born from the same society — one that never truly taught women how to love their own bodies.
When leggings became mainstream — when celebrities and influencers began wearing them — my mother began to wear them too. External authority had replaced personal judgment.
In the China she grew up in, women’s bodies were never meant to be seen. “Modesty,” “decency,” and “propriety” defined morality and acceptance. She didn’t fear the clothes — she feared the gaze.
But when the media and capital began to label those same clothes “chic,” “healthy,” and “elegant,” the body once condemned as “shameless” suddenly became fashionable.
This is a classic social translation — from shame to style.In a country where feminism remains muted, the absence of individual aesthetic sovereignty still dominates. That’s why “following trends” remains the norm.
What we “can” or “cannot” wear is rarely decided by ourselves — it is authorized by the trend itself. My mother hasn’t truly changed her beliefs; she’s simply shifted from moral discipline to fashion discipline.
China still worships the aesthetic of “white, thin, and young.” Though the media promotes a so-called “healthy aesthetic,” in real life it’s far from accepted. This reflects the psychology of Chinese fashion culture — from shame to acceptance, from resisting the body to mimicking trends, yet still missing self-recognition and subjectivity.
Chinese fashion hasn’t evolved from “closed” to “open.” It still swings between the gaze of others and the desire for self-expression.
Leaving and Imitating
When I was eighteen, I forged my mother’s signature, dropped out of a top Chinese university, and set off backpacking. It was my first declaration of sovereignty over my body and my destiny.
In a society where “obedience” is a moral virtue, it was my first act of rebellion — my first attempt to choose my own life.
For the first time, I felt in control.
It was also the first time I asked myself: “Who am I?”
I began to resist social order through my appearance — dyeing my hair, wearing short skirts, piercing my ears, tattooing my skin. Each act was a way to reclaim ownership of my body.
At twenty-one, I moved to Australia and began imitating local trendsetters to blend in. When I started to look more like them, I thought it meant freedom. But I realized I was still an outsider — a gap I could never cross. Outwardly, I looked assimilated; inwardly, I was still following, still seeking approval.
Fashion, I learned, thrives on constant novelty — not only in style, but in thought and rhythm. I was afraid of falling behind.
In recent years, a voice inside me keeps asking: “Who am I, really?” It seems my aesthetic logic was still being shaped by a gaze — this time, by white society.
In China, pale skin represents elegance, status, and civilization — proximity to the West.In Australia, tanned skin represents confidence, vitality, and wealth — yet another capitalist ideal.
I thought I was chasing different kinds of beauty, but they all revolved around the same center.I escaped Eastern morality, only to be judged by Western standards.
There is never freedom.
My Chineseness
Living abroad, I finally understood how complex “Chineseness” is.
It’s not about skin color or tradition — it’s a deeply internalized posture: an instinct to restrain oneself, to stay quiet, to blend in under any circumstance.
After graduation, I joined an Australian company, chasing the dream of becoming a “successful professional.” But I slowly realized that my ambition and desire were really about seeking validation from white society. I had tied my self-worth to capital — and worse, to the gaze of others.
Third Culture Identities
When I travel, my style shifts to match the local gaze.I wear an East Asian face but speak with hybrid accents. I belong neither here nor there.
Between globalization and tradition, many people like me drift without anchor. The world’s fashion and culture are still dominated by whiteness — a legacy of colonialism and capitalism intertwined.
Yet, a third culture is emerging.We no longer seek to return to a “pure East,” nor to imitate the “advanced West.” We exist in the tension between both, creating new ways of being.
To do that, we must shed internalized colonial shame and stop seeing ourselves through others’ eyes. Fashion, after all, runs far deeper than it appears.
Fashion, for Me
Sometimes I think back to those old arguments with my mother — the fights over what I should or shouldn’t wear. She called me “improper.” I called her “conservative.”
Now I see we were simply standing on opposite sides of the same cultural storm. She was tamed by morality; I was captured by fashion trends.But this year, I’ve begun to understand: I no longer need imitation to prove anything.I can choose different styles, move freely between two worlds — or belong to neither.
I no longer dress to conform to anyone’s order; I dress to find my own shape in the world.
Fashion is the softest yet most secret form of power. It teaches me how to be seen — and how to censor myself. We think we are pursuing individuality, but in truth, we are often just learning how to belong.
People used to say fashion is anti-utopian and anti-authoritarian.For me, it is a way of speaking to the world — and the space where I learn, between freedom and order, to wear my contradictions with pride.
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作为一个有色人种，出生在中国，现在生活在澳大利亚，时尚对我来说有着更复杂的几层含义。
我最近辞去了工作，回到了中国——那个我过去十年最想逃离的地方。
当我回来时，我降落在家乡，一个靠近上海、杭州和南京的小城。
这一次，即使没有母亲的提醒，我也开始每天穿胸罩，摘掉耳洞，把那些前卫的衣服塞进衣柜的角落。 不是因为我不再叛逆，而是我意识到，多年来的反抗对他们来说毫无意义。 十年过去了，每次我回到这座城市，亲戚见到我的第一句话永远是对我外貌的评论： “胖了”，“黑了”。 我从最初的愤怒与反抗，到现在只是笑一笑。 他们不会改变，我也不会改变。
因为我已经意识到，抗争在这片土地上暂时是没有意义的。
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我记得前几年在lululemon的legging刚开始风行西方的时候。我在回国的某天穿上这条裤子外出。出乎意料的被母亲阻止出门。我们之间爆发的争吵犹如一场战争。我被母亲拦下。她指着我那条贴身的裤子， 脸色发白，声音发抖地说： “这样出门太下流，会让我丢脸。”但是一年多以后，这个风潮传到了国内，她开始身穿legging出门。我这才明白，母亲无法容忍的不是“紧身裤”，而是我成为“第一个”——第一个穿 legging 的人，第一个打破秩序的人，第一个出柜的人。而一旦社会给出了“许可”，她就能心安理得地跟随。 - 第一个穿上legging，第一个穿孔，第一个出轨的人。但是如果身边已经开始有先例，那么她可以接受。 我一直以为母亲在逐渐开放，但是我发现她的开放是根据风向来的。
我们之间大大小小的争吵不是敌对，而是女性在不同时代的困境- 是代际文化冲突的缩影。母亲害怕丢脸，你害怕被压抑——而这两种恐惧，都来自同一个社会：一个从未真正教会女性如何爱自己的身体的社会。
当母亲看见legging 成为全民时尚、明星和博主纷纷穿着时，她也穿上，外部的权威替代了自我判断。过去在旧中国的成长环境中，女性身体从未被鼓励展示。“遮掩”“端庄”“得体”代表社会接受度与道德尊严。她害怕的不是衣服，而是社会的凝视与评判。但是当主流媒体与资本赋予某种服饰“高级”“健康”“时髦”的标签， 原本被视为“不体面”的身体展示，可以瞬间洗掉耻辱的标签，转而成时尚和潮流。
这是一种典型的从羞耻到时髦的社会转译过程。在中国女性主义依然被压抑的情况里，个体审美主权缺失还是主导文化，这也解释了为什么跟风依然是主流。 “可以穿”与“不可以穿”往往不是由自我决定，而是由潮流授权。
母亲并非真的改变了观念，她只是从“被道德规训”转向“被时尚规训。中国依然崇尚着白瘦幼的审美体系，虽然健康审美也开始在媒体上流行，但是真正现实生活中还没有被大众接受。这折射出中国时尚文化的心理结构转变——从“羞耻”到“接受”，从“抵触身体”到“模仿潮流”，而中间缺失的，正是真正的自我认同与主体意识。
中国的时尚并不是从“封闭”走向“开放”，而是仍在“他者的凝视”与“自我表达”之间摇摆
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18岁的时候我第伪造了母亲的签名，从国内的一所好大学退学，背包旅行。这是我第一次仿佛对身体与命运主权的宣告。在一个以“顺从”为道德核心的社会中，我第一次想要“背叛”的决定自己的人生。我以为我终于掌控了自己的命运。
第一次对“我是谁”提出了质问。我开始用外貌去反抗秩序：染发、穿短裙、打耳洞、纹身——那是我夺回身体主权的方式。
21岁我来到澳大利亚，开始模仿澳洲人潮人的穿搭模式，去融入澳洲人的圈子。当我变得越来越像他们的一员，以为那是自由的象征。
但是我发现在文化经历上我和很多人有着无法交流的鸿沟。表面虽然我被同化。但是我依然逃避不了孜孜不倦的跟随这里的潮流。仿佛时尚的原则就是对新无止尽的追求,不仅购买新品，,而这一点不仅影响了我的金钱，,它更深地影响了我的行为方式、思考方式以及对生活节奏的感知,我害怕落伍。
我看着镜子里的自己，这几年我的心里却一直有一个声音问自己“我到底是谁？” 有一天我突然认识到我的审美逻辑依然被凝视。 只不过，这一次凝视我的，是白人社会。
在中国，白代表“优雅、高级、文明”，是接近西方的象征；在澳洲，晒黑代表“自然、自信、阳光”，同样是白人定义的理想。 我以为在追求不同的美，其实都在围着同一个中心旋转。我逃离了东方的道德，却仍被西方的标准评判 - 我从未自由过。
在异国他乡，我才真正体会到“中国性”的复杂。它不是肤色、也不是传统服饰，而是一种深深的内化——一种在任何社会中，都本能地学会自我约束的姿态，本能的保持沉默，本能的想要融入。
毕业后我进入一家澳洲公司，渴望成为职场里的“成功人士”。但我逐渐意识到，我的奋斗与欲望，都在向白人世界索取认可。我把自我价值绑在资本上，更可笑的是——我渴望的，是他们的目光。
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在我旅行的过程中，每到一个地方，我就换一种穿法，去适应当地的目光。
我们身上带着东亚的五官，却讲着混合的口音；我们既不是这里的人，也不是那里的人。在全球化与传统之间，很多和我类似的人都在漂浮。世界的文化和时尚仍由白人主导，这根源在于殖民主义 + 资本主义的结构性延续。但是越来越多的第三文化这在涌现。我们不再试图回到“纯粹的东方”，也不再模仿“先进的西方”，而是在两者的张力中，创造出新的存在方式。要做到这一点，我们必须摆脱内化的殖民羞耻，停止用他者的眼光看自己。时尚，远比看上去深刻。
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有时我会想起在家中与母亲为了穿什么而争吵的场景。 她骂我“不懂体面”， 而我喊她“落伍”和“保守”。
我们不过是同一场文化风暴的两端——她被道德驯化，我被时尚俘获。但今年我渐渐理解不再需要通过模仿来证明什么。我可以选择不同的风格，在两个社会中自由切换或者格格不入。不再为了符合任何世界的秩序而打扮， 而是为了在世界中找到自己的形状。
它是最柔软、也最隐秘的权力系统。它教我们如何被看见，也教我们如何自我审查。我们以为在追求个性，其实只是不断学习“如何合群”。
过去人们说时尚是反乌托邦和反独裁的。它是我与世界对话的方式，
也是我在自由与秩序之间，学会骄傲地穿戴自己矛盾的过程。