Fashion is more than just a hobby, and clothing is more than just fabric; it has always been as such. From the moment we’re born, clothing is used to enforce gender norms; boys are wrapped in blue, girls in pink, and as we grow older, these expectations continue: girls wear skirts, boys wear pants. In this way, fashion has long been used to condition us to follow a certain set of societal rules and conform to what society deems appropriate. Gender roles and stereotypes are deeply ingrained in fashion, and generally, we comply with them until our eyes are opened to what these norms actually represent.
For me, this realisation came through the well-known singer and songwriter Billie Eilish.
When she first appeared in oversized streetwear, it wasn’t just about a style preference. Those baggy hoodies and loose silhouettes were a quiet rebellion against an industry that constantly demands women bare themselves for consumption. In a culture where femininity is policed, sexualised, and commodified, Billie turned fabric into armour. She refused to play the part patriarchy had already scripted for her, showing that choosing comfort could itself be an act of resistance. Her clothes didn’t hide her identity; they protected it from being reduced to a body for public commentary.
But then, a few years later, she posed for Vogue in a corset and stockings, an aesthetic that screamed hyper-femininity (Snapes)¹. The backlash was swift. Some called it a betrayal of her earlier stance. Others branded it a “reinvention”. The very fact that the world was so unsettled by her shift revealed something important: society wants women to pick one lane. To either reject femininity entirely and be applauded as strong or to fully embrace it and be boxed in as delicate. Billie did both, unapologetically, and the discomfort people felt said more about entrenched patriarchal expectations than about her.
That’s what changed the way I see clothing. Billie’s choices made me realise that clothes themselves aren’t the problem; it’s the meanings patriarchy attaches to them. An oversized hoodie on a man is unremarkable, but on a woman, it becomes a political act. A corset on a man might be seen as bold or artistic, but on a woman, it’s read as submission. Neither of those interpretations is inherently true; both are projections.
Billie Eilish exposed how fashion is used as a tool of control, a way to assign gender roles and measure women against impossible standards. She showed me that what we often think of as “style” is actually social conditioning. We’re taught that femininity must always be visible, that modesty is prudish, that masculinity is neutral, and that clothing is a mirror of morality. And yet, Billie dismantled that entire framework by refusing to stay in a single category.
Her fashion evolution revealed something liberating: clothing doesn’t have to prove masculinity or femininity. It doesn’t have to be a code we perform for others. It can be a contradiction. It can be an expression. It can be both armour and art.
For me, Billie Eilish turned fashion from something I once saw as neutral into something I now see as a powerful tool of expression that has the capability to bring about actual change. She made visible the rules I didn’t realise I was following. And she taught me that the most radical choice isn’t oversized or fitted, masculine or feminine. It’s refusing to let society dictate what your clothes are supposed to mean and wearing what feels right, what feels true, to you.
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¹ Snapes, Laura. “It’s All about What Makes You Feel Good”: Billie Eilish on New Music, Power Dynamics, and Her Internet-Breaking Transformation.” British Vogue, 2 May 2021, www.vogue.co.uk/news/article/billie-eilish-vogue-interview.