Fashion, Validation, and the Mother-Daughter Battle at Breakfast

This morning, over breakfast, my mother and I had a full-blown argument—about fashion. It wasn’t the first time, but something about today’s fight hit differently. Maybe because I finally said it out loud: I don’t want her fashion advice anymore.

For as long as I can remember, my mom has been the one choosing almost 90 percent of what I wear. And for just as long, I’ve been seeking her approval, intentionally or not. But lately, I’ve started to question why.

The fight wasn’t just about clothes. It was about control, validation, and the weight of expectations. She believes fashion is about looking put-together, about hiding imperfections, about fitting into a certain mold. I, on the other hand, have begun to see fashion as a form of self-expression—something that shouldn’t be dictated by consumer trends or the need to "flatter" my body shape. To me, it has always been about consumerism, never about self-love or wearing what makes you feel good.

I get that I need to look presentable, but that doesn’t mean dressing up is everything a girl should care about. My mom, however, appreciates fashion in a way I never have. She sees it as an art, a discipline, a way to carry oneself in the world. I just don’t see it that way. Of course, she benefits from being good-looking. She’s always been admired for it. The whole time, she was questioning my low self-esteem, as if the problem was that I didn’t try hard enough to make myself look better. But she would never understand me.

And it’s not just her—it’s society as a whole. Women are constantly told to look a certain way, to dress "right," to always be presentable. The pressure to conform is exhausting. Fashion, instead of being a personal choice, becomes a way to measure worth. It dictates how we are perceived, how much respect we receive, and even how we are treated. Somewhere along the way, the idea of dressing for oneself got lost, buried under trends, beauty standards, and the need for external validation.

And then there’s the fat shaming. Shopping trips have always been a battlefield. Every time I pick something out, she has something to say:

"This won’t hide your belly." "You look fat in this."

I know she thinks she’s being helpful. That she wants me to "look my best." But what she doesn’t realize is how damaging those words are. How they linger long after we leave the fitting room, shaping the way I see myself. How they reinforce the idea that my body is something to be fixed, rather than something to be accepted.

Today, I pushed back. I told her I don’t care if an outfit doesn’t make me look thinner. I don’t want to dress to hide; I want to dress to express. And maybe for the first time, I saw a flicker of realization in her eyes.

We didn’t resolve everything. She’s still my mom, and I’m still her daughter. But maybe, just maybe, today was the first step toward her seeing me not as someone to mold, but as someone who can make her own choices—even about something as simple as what to wear.

And maybe, in the bigger picture, this is a conversation we all need to have—about how much of our identity is tied to appearance, and whether it’s time to let that go.