You’re Allowed to Change: Paralysis Disguised as Taste and the Anxiety of Aesthetics

“Aesthetic” is defined as a concern with beauty or the appreciation of beauty. For my generation, that concern often feels less like appreciation and more like fixation to the point of distress. Rather than engaging with beauty as something exploratory or evolving, there is a growing obsession with finding the perfect aesthetic; one that is hot, weird, cool, and different, yet somehow eternally on trend.

What I’m noticing is that this obsession creates an unspoken rule: once you choose an aesthetic, you’re expected to commit to it indefinitely. Exploration is met with suspicion. Change is framed as inconsistency or as fake. The idea that style might evolve alongside a person is treated as failure rather than growth.

This anxiety shows up most clearly in the language we use. I was reminded of this after seeing a post titled “Why do rich alt mfs always kinda look performative,” followed by a wave of discourse around “performative” people. The critique resonated because it echoed a wider cultural fear—one that polices authenticity through permanence. I’ve seen similar accusations aimed at people who shift between aesthetics, or who move from “normie” presentation into alternative fashion, or vice versa. The implication is always the same: if you changed, you were never real to begin with.

This mindset has consequences. I’ve watched people avoid fashion altogether because they haven’t “settled” on an aesthetic yet, or because they feel they haven’t perfected their look. Style becomes a performance that must be finalized before it’s allowed to exist publicly. Once it’s public, it must be permanent. The result is paralysis disguised as taste, and an unspoken obligation to aesthetic consistency at all costs.

But fashion has never functioned this way. Style is not a fixed identity; it’s a process. Even when we believe we are the same person we were yesterday, we aren’t. Change is not a personal failure, it’s biological. To demand aesthetic permanence from people who are constantly evolving is to misunderstand both fashion and humanity.

My own wardrobe reflects this reality. It moves between streetwear, jirai kei, ryousangata, interview attire, and alternative clubwear. These aren’t contradictions; they’re chapters. If tomorrow I decide a particular style no longer resonates, that doesn’t negate what it once meant to me. It simply marks a transition.

What’s often forgotten is that fashion tells a story over time. It reflects where you’ve been, where you are, and where you might be going. It’s a visual record of adaptation. When people surrender that autonomy, when they feel pressured to lock themselves into a single aesthetic or mirror what others are doing, fashion loses its capacity for experimentation. Innovation stagnates, and sameness fills the gap.

That sameness is already visible. In the pursuit of coherence, individuality is flattened. In the fear of being labeled inauthentic, people begin to look increasingly alike.

Fashion is not meant to be static. It is multifaceted because people are multifaceted. And while aesthetics can shape identity, they should never imprison it.

Fashion isn’t permanent.

Death is.

As long as you’re alive, you’re allowed to change.