The pressure to be fashionable as a Muslim woman.

Everybody wants to be stylish, but have you ever considered what would happen if you weren't? If you just threw on a random outfit and went to the shops, what's the worst that would happen? An unflattering photo, maybe a run-in with an ex?

In a world where the way we dress is heavily politicised, the pressure to be fashionable (read: palatable) as a Muslim girl in Australia is real.

From hijab and burqa bans in Europe, to forced hijabs in other countries, it seems that everywhere we go, there are people trying to police our bodies, faith and self-expression — and, at least for me, the result is having to prove that wearing a hijab doesn't make me less of a person.

Watch: Susan Carland talks about wearing the hijab with Mia Freedman on the No Filter podcast. Post continues below.

As a hijabi, dressing casually or unfashionably comes with a lot more baggage thanks to certain stereotypes about us. At best, people might make a snap judgment that you're either conservative, foreign, or, dare I say it, oppressed. At worst, they might let you know exactly what they think about you and your choice to be covered.

"Why are you wearing that?"

"Did your dad force you?"

"What about your husband?"

Variations of comments and questions like these are the daily norm for hijabi women. The assumption that we have no agency and are simply victims at the hands of our fathers, brothers, and husbands is one that has sadly persisted since it became a common belief post-9/11. Though this is undoubtedly true for some women, a fact that often becomes lost is that only a minority of Muslim women even wear hijabs, and many of us here in western countries like Australia do so at great cost.

Growing up in Australia, I often felt like I had to prove that I wasn't being forced into wearing a hijab. Over the years, I found myself obsessing over what strangers would think when they passed me on the street, and all of the ways I could mitigate any negative beliefs. In my head, I would strategise ways to silently communicate that I wasn't conservative, backwards, uneducated, judgemental, or whatever stereotype people believed. I wanted people to know that I was, well, normal.

As Judith Butler so wisely wrote all those years ago, one of the key ways we signify who we are and "perform" our individuality is through how we dress — and so it's perhaps unsurprising that I turned to fashion to convey what I hoped was the look of an educated, liberated, modern Muslim woman.

In high school, I dressed alternatively to signify being more open-minded than what people assume Muslim women were. Wearing all black or rocking t-shirts with political slogans/band logos was my style, and any clothing that made me look more 'Muslim' felt repulsive. It was the era of self-hate, as it often is for any teenager, and I was desperate not to be like other (Muslim) girls.

Fast forward to my twenties, and my vision of what a cool, progressive, self-possessed Muslim woman looks like morphed into the women I see on TikTok. Sophisticated "Vela girls" who exclusively wear modal hijabs and chic linen sets while they vacation in Dubai, or eclectic, alternative hijabis who shop at thrift stores for perfectly-layered, magazine-worthy outfits.

These women didn't seem like victims to me. They looked smart, creative, powerful, elegant. All the things that would help me be less "other" and more palatable. Being a hijabi is okay — even cool and interesting — if you turn it into a fashion moment, and dressing chic can almost counteract the alienness of modest dressing.

The problem with navigating other people's perceptions of me is that it's exhausting, unsustainable and not really true to who I am.

The truth is, I'm not always stylish. This dialogue of outfits is one-sided, and most of the time it's more about controlling my image than actual self-expression. If I dressed in what I feel good in — regardless of outside influence — I'd probably dress more modestly, not less. I'd wear long, flowing abayas without fearing that people will assume I'm oppressed.

The irony is that, in many ways, I am oppressed — just not in the way people think.

I live in a country where I fear dressing in ways that are true to myself, because Islamophobic attacks have increased by more than 600 per cent. Since October 2023, Islamophobia Register Australia has tracked more than 900 incidents — more than the previous eight years combined, and that's without considering the fact that these numbers are likely much higher due to underreporting.

As a visibly Muslim woman, I am the most likely from my community to experience an attack. There are countries in which I would be banned from public spaces, beaches and participating in sports because I wear a hijab.

It's with these instances in mind that I'm beginning to overcome the pressure to look pristine and meticulously style at all times. I'm realising that the pressure to dress trendy and chic as a hijabi woman to prove that my personhood is not being stifled is, in some ways, a capitulation to the very forces that are making me feel like I'm not enough.

Recently, I've been embracing the long, flowing skirts, maxi dresses and abayas that I hated as a teen. I care less about whether people see my hijab and modest clothing and make an assumption about me, and more about being happy and comfortable. Maybe if more of us Muslim women did so, there would be no "liberated hijabi" look to aspire to — it would just be who we are.

Feature: supplied.