It took me years to like my body, but only seconds to learn I should hate it. When I stopped looking like a child and finally felt like a woman, the world rewarded me — at first.
I felt confident, seen, even powerful. But with that feeling came immediate criticism. Suddenly, my favorite tops were “too provocative.” Sweatpants and a sports bra? “Too much.” A T-shirt and spandex? “Still too much.” Too much leg, too much shoulder, too much cleavage, too much me.
Every outfit became a negotiation between what I wanted and what the world would allow. Why couldn’t I just wear what I wanted and feel good about myself?
The truth hit me when I turned 15 and I lost the right to wear a T-shirt and underwear in my own home. When my mom saw me, and said, “Your uncles are going to be here. You can’t look like that, so go change.” They weren’t staying. They weren’t even there yet. But because men — male family members — might glance at my legs, my body became a problem to solve.
What changed? Not my clothes. Not their character. Just the way the world saw me now, through the male gaze.
The “male gaze” is a term coined by film critic Laura Mulvey, but you don’t need a film degree to understand it. It’s the unspoken rule that women’s bodies exist to be looked at and that looking is a male right, but a female responsibility to control. In movies, female characters are often shown in a way that emphasizes their physical appearance and sexual appeal, making them the object of the gaze and therefore passive.
But this isn’t just a Hollywood problem — it’s a centuries-old expectation, rooted in patriarchy, that women’s bodies are inherently dangerous unless contained. Long before cameras captured women in soft lighting, they were being wrapped in corsets, veils and layers of fabric, all in the name of “modesty.” The male gaze didn’t invent this dynamic, it just gave it a name.
Little girls learn this early. At family barbecues, boys run shirtless while girls are told to “cover up.” At school, girls get dress coded for “distracting” boys with their shoulders. I didn’t even know what “sexiness” was yet, but I was already being taught that my body could provoke something in others and that was my fault.
These rules aren’t really about protecting children from each other — they’re about protecting adult men from their own impulses. Why else would a 14-year-old’s bare shoulders be labeled a “disruption” while her male teacher’s wandering eyes never get called into question?
However, the real issue was never my body, it was the people who’d been taught they had a right to look.
Women are sexualized aggressively and publicly — they are catcalled on the streets, policed in classrooms and scrutinized in the media. A girl in a crop top is “asking for attention,” but a shirtless guy walking around on a hot day is just “existing.” Men are sexualized too — but it’s celebratory, not controlling. Chris Hemsworth’s thirst traps are praised as “empowering,” while Sydney Sweeney’s outfits are picked apart as “desperate.”
The difference? Male sexualization is a compliment while female sexualization is a warning: “Don’t distract the boys.”
But even among women, the rules aren’t equal, especially in the media. Sydney Sweeney is scrutinized more than her Euphoria costars like Maude Apatow because society polices women with larger chests differently — as if their bodies are inherently “indecent,” while smaller-chested women are either infantilized or deemed “safe.” Bigger breasts are coded as more sexually available, while smaller ones are either dismissed or fetishized as youthful. The male gaze doesn’t just sexualize women — it sorts them into categories, each with its own brand of control.
Girls grow up internalizing the male gaze, policing themselves before anyone else can. We choose clothes based on, “Will this cause a problem?” instead of, “Do I like this?” Research has shown how early this conditioning begins — girls as young as 5 years old express dissatisfaction with their bodies, paving the way for negative body image in the future. It has even been found that over 60 percent of elementary school-age girls wish to lose weight and are unhappy with their bodies, well before they fully develop.
By adolescence, we’ve learned to see ourselves through a lens that was never ours to begin with. It’s not just about clothing, it’s about girls being trained to view their bodies as inherently disruptive, something to be managed rather than celebrated.
The path forward requires more than just awareness: It demands action. Every time we call out the double standard — why is his outfit acceptable while hers is scandalous? — we chip away at the foundation of this oppressive gaze.
We need to fundamentally reframe the conversation, shifting the burden from women’s clothing choices to society’s unhealthy perceptions. Instead of parental figures and schools teaching girls to shrink themselves, we should teach boys that their impulses are theirs alone to manage. True freedom comes when we collectively reject the idea that women’s bodies are public property.
But even if women stopped dressing for the male gaze, men’s eyes will still linger — what we need is for their opinions to stop mattering. The real transformation isn’t in their perception, it’s in our own. We should begin occupying space differently, walking through the world as someone who fundamentally belongs there. That’s the secret power the patriarchy fears, not just our bare shoulders, but our unshakable belief that we deserve to take up room.
Realistically, this is how systems crumble — not in one dramatic moment, but in thousands of daily rebellions. I used to think liberation would come when men finally saw us as equals — now I know it begins when we stop waiting for their permission to exist. As we fight for reproductive rights, elect female leaders and storm male-dominated spaces, we’re not just challenging the male gaze — we’re rendering it obsolete. Because the future isn’t one where women are seen differently, it’s one where we’re finally free to see ourselves.
I’m done negotiating my right to exist comfortably in my own skin. My body is mine, not an object to be policed, not a problem to be solved, but wholly and unapologetically my own. And that revolution starts with something beautifully simple — wearing whatever the hell I want while everyone else stops sexualizing me.
Suhiliah Lall is a sophomore majoring in cinema.
Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the Staff Editorial.