'I changed my hair and name to fit in. Then I asked myself a question that undid it all.'

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There I was again, every brown girl knows this moment. It's the first day of school. The teacher is doing roll call. And you're already bracing yourself. Waiting for the pause. The squint. The stumble.

"Asha…nee?"

I'd quickly jump in before the silence got too loud.

"Oh Miss, I actually go by my middle name, Amanda. But you can shorten it to Mandy."

I'd do the same with my last name, Kotalawala.

"You can just say Kota."

Every time, it felt like I had landed on earth from another planet, foreign, strange, too hard. I remember wishing I had a name like Sally Smith so I could just… blend in.

At lunchtime, I'd open my thermos of curry, the same food I loved at home, and suddenly it became an exhibition.

My white friends would hover curiously — genuinely excited, noses wrinkling and eyes widening. I know they didn't mean anything by it; they actually loved my Amma's curry (to be fair, she is the best cook).

But inside, it still made me feel like an alien. It wasn't about them, it was about what I made it mean about myself.

Growing up as an Australian-Sri Lankan girl meant living in two worlds. At home, I was Ashani, or Asha. At school, I was Mandy. Two names. Two identities. Two versions of me are neither allowed to fully exist at the same time.

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Teenage me wanted one thing: to fit in.

And when I looked at the beauty standards around me, the message was painfully clear:

Thin. White. Blonde. Big boobs. Everything I wasn't.

I couldn't change my skin colour. I couldn't change my features.

But I thought maybe one day I could buy the boobs. (Spoiler: I am VERY glad I didn't.) When boys liked the same type of girl over and over again, I internalised it. I learned that being "more white" — in my looks, my name, my personality might mean I'd finally be liked, loved and accepted.

There were all these subconscious messages I inherited without even realising:

If you assimilate, you'll be safe.

If you blend in, you'll be successful.

If you're less "Sri Lankan," you'll finally belong.

So in my early 20s, I dyed my hair blonde. And I committed to 'Mandy Kota' as my name and 'brand'. At the time, it felt empowering. But now I can see I was slowly abandoning myself in real-time.

Something shifted and it scared me.

As I got older, I started reconnecting with my culture in small, unexpected ways; stories, traditions, lineage, the beauty I had once labelled as "too much" or "too weird." I began asking myself the question I had avoided for years: Why am I living as two different people?

And then it happened: The thought that terrified me. What if I dyed my hair back to black?

It sounds small, but for me, it felt like a big deal. Blonde had become my armour. My identity. My way of being seen.

If I go dark, will I disappear? Will people stop noticing me? Will I go back to the girl who was "too ethnic," "too different," "too much"?

I didn't tell anyone, not even my husband. I just booked the appointment.

Sitting in that hairdresser's chair felt like standing between the girl I had been and the woman I was becoming.

When the dye was washed out, and I looked in the mirror, I felt shock. Recognition. Grief. Rebirth. It felt weird but weird in a way that felt honest.

It wasn't "just hair." It was a reclamation.

When I shared a video online, I expected quiet. Maybe confusion.

Instead, I was met with an outpouring of love from women and men of all backgrounds. Women who had gone blonde to fit in. Women who had straightened their curls for decades. Women who had hidden their names, their accents, their food, their lineage.

Some even told me it inspired them to return to their natural colour too.

That's when I realised: This wasn't a hairstyle change. It was a reclamation.

Of identity.

Of ancestry.

Of the little girl who learned to shrink herself in order to belong.

Then came the name, the final piece of the puzzle.

Mandy was safe. Cute. Easy. Uncomplicated.

But she was never me.

Ashani felt bold. Loud. "Exotic." It reminded me of every moment in my childhood when attention felt dangerous.

So I started small. I asked my close friends to call me Ashani. It felt weird at first, like trying on clothes that belonged to the future version of myself. Eventually, I changed it publicly. And again, people were so loving. So respectful. So patient.

Every DM, every comment, every message from a woman saying: "You've inspired me to reclaim my own name,"… felt like another part of my childhood was healing.

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Your healing might become someone else's permission slip.

I thought I was just changing my hair and using my real name was just me & being honest with myself.  But it was much bigger than that.

It was an invitation to myself and to every woman of colour to redefine beauty on our own terms. To honour our roots rather than run from them. To stop editing ourselves to be digestible.

Today, I'm proudly Ashani.

I'm proudly Australian-Sri Lankan.

I'm proudly brown.

I'm proudly the girl who used to bring curry in a thermos.

I'm proudly wearing my natural black hair curly, sometimes frizzy, sometimes wild, exactly as my ancestors passed it down.

And teenage Ashani… I know she's smiling. She finally realised she didn't need to be blonde, white, or "less ethnic" to be beautiful.

She just needed to be herself.

Feature Image: Supplied.