What do you think of when you hear the word radiance? A movie star with glossy hair, perfect skin and a sequinned gown? Sunlight spilling over the ocean at golden hour? Diamonds glittering under a spotlight? For me, radiance started as a pink neoprene skirt, old Dr. Martens, sparkles on my face and a flower crown.
The skirt was a piece my mum had bought me from Target – possibly for an audition or something. The sparkles were a makeup staple: I always had the mindset ‘If I’m putting on makeup, it’s to have fun’. I’ve always loved colour and sparkles and playing dress-up. In fact, my whole career started because of a Princess Anna dress-up I got for my 16th birthday, but that’s another story.
Being autistic, being a woman and growing up in a small town, I’ve been told my whole life by those around me that I needed to shrink myself. I needed to fit in; I needed to blend. But I’d tried my whole life to slot myself into a hole that was not designed for me to fit into it… And I was tired of it. That outfit and the makeup that came with it was the opposite of masking. A swipe of glitter across my cheeks felt like armour; it was playful and it was fun and it was me. When I painted hearts onto my cheeks or put glitter typically reserved for festivals on my cheek bones, it wasn’t about covering flaws, it was about amplifying joy.
My makeup was never “perfect” (in fact, even still, most of my makeup is done in the car on the way to an event. There’s no rhyme or reason, it’s purely ‘I think this colour would make me happy today’, and that was exactly the point. It wasn’t about sculpted brows or a soft glam look; it was about radiance that came from within and spilled outwards. It was about boldly, proudly showing the world my inside, on the outside. It was bright, joyful, unapologetic. It said: I am here. I am not hiding. My difference is not only valid, it’s radiant.
It felt like my very own princess costume.
Being autistic, being a woman and growing up in a small town, I’ve been told my whole life by those around me that I needed to shrink myself. I needed to fit in; I needed to blend. But I’d tried my whole life to slot myself into a hole that was not designed for me to fit into it… And I was tired of it. That outfit and the makeup that came with it was the opposite of masking. A swipe of glitter across my cheeks felt like armour; it was playful and it was fun and it was me. When I painted hearts onto my cheeks or put glitter typically reserved for festivals on my cheek bones, it wasn’t about covering flaws, it was about amplifying joy.
My makeup was never “perfect” (in fact, even still, most of my makeup is done in the car on the way to an event. There’s no rhyme or reason, it’s purely ‘I think this colour would make me happy today’, and that was exactly the point. It wasn’t about sculpted brows or a soft glam look; it was about radiance that came from within and spilled outwards. It was about boldly, proudly showing the world my inside, on the outside. It was bright, joyful, unapologetic. It said: I am here. I am not hiding. My difference is not only valid, it’s radiant.
It felt like my very own princess costume.
This ensemble became my uniform for every panel, every talk, every interview, every event. In an industry where others were wearing suits and heels and a slick-back, my messy hair and wetsuit-material outfit stood out in a way that felt so deeply, comfortably me. When I slipped into the beaten-up Docs and put that flower crown on my head, I knew I was walking into the world as myself. And I didn’t realise until the last time I donned that outfit just how powerful that actually was.
It was 26 March 2021 when I last donned the skirt. I’d been deep in a months-long audition process for Quinni in Heartbreak High, and that evening, I was performing on stage. After a short intermission, I checked my phone and saw 15 missed calls from my manager. When I called back, all he said was, “Are you sitting down?”
In that moment, my whole life shifted. Everything I had ever dreamed of, everything I’d worked for, was suddenly real. And I was wearing my pink skirt, flower crown and Docs. I was me, exactly as I was, and the world had just said, yes. I haven’t worn the outfit since. It wasn’t intentional, I think it just happened. I started to grow away from it. I started to find my radiance, my confidence, myself outside of the outfit. I like to think it served its purpose, and when its purpose had been found, it said ‘You’ve got it from here.’
This ensemble became my uniform for every panel, every talk, every interview, every event. In an industry where others were wearing suits and heels and a slick-back, my messy hair and wetsuit-material outfit stood out in a way that felt so deeply, comfortably me. When I slipped into the beaten-up Docs and put that flower crown on my head, I knew I was walking into the world as myself. And I didn’t realise until the last time I donned that outfit just how powerful that actually was.
It was 26 March 2021 when I last donned the skirt. I’d been deep in a months-long audition process for Quinni in Heartbreak High, and that evening, I was performing on stage. After a short intermission, I checked my phone and saw 15 missed calls from my manager. When I called back, all he said was, “Are you sitting down?”
In that moment, my whole life shifted. Everything I had ever dreamed of, everything I’d worked for, was suddenly real. And I was wearing my pink skirt, flower crown and Docs. I was me, exactly as I was, and the world had just said, yes. I haven’t worn the outfit since. It wasn’t intentional, I think it just happened. I started to grow away from it. I started to find my radiance, my confidence, myself outside of the outfit. I like to think it served its purpose, and when its purpose had been found, it said ‘You’ve got it from here.’
And maybe that’s silly, to anthropomorphise clothing like that. But I think also, historically, the clothing we wear does help us show the world who we are and that in turn, can create the most wonderful stories and push us into new chapters. Maybe it’s poetic that it just so happened to be my last time wearing it. Maybe it’s just that I found a new way to show my radiance. Looking back now, I realise how much that outfit and the makeup that came with it was an archive of me. My joy, my sparkle, my autistic self.
Women throughout history have used clothing and makeup as language, as power, as resistance. We’ve stitched resilience into hems, woven rebellion into patterns and crowned ourselves with whatever we could find to say, I am here. I am myself. I matter. For me, that skirt, that crown, those sparkles and those Docs were exactly that: a record of who I was stepping into, a time capsule of my early career, and a declaration that difference can shine.
I’ve retired that neoprene outfit now. The Dr. Martens have walked enough miles to be put to rest and the flower crowns now stay hung in my wardrobe, but that outfit will always be a part of my story.
The sparkles on my cheeks and the poorly drawn hearts still are a staple on my face; I think they probably always will be.
Radiance isn’t about fitting into someone else’s idea of perfection. It’s not flawless skin or sequinned gowns. It’s joy. It’s difference. It’s scuffed Docs, sparkles on your cheeks or whatever makes you feel most yourself. It’s showing up and letting the world see exactly who you are, unapologetically, brightly, beautifully you.
The History of Beauty
A timeline of the moments that defined beauty culture from the 1900s to now.
Rethinking Natural Beauty
Elise Loehnen on reclaiming beauty as play, presence and self-expression.
Adorn. Transform. Belong.
Isamaya Ffrench on beauty as art, culture and human connection.
The History of Beauty
A timeline of the moments that defined beauty culture from the 1900s to now.
Rethinking Natural Beauty
Elise Loehnen on reclaiming beauty as play, presence and self-expression.
Adorn. Transform. Belong.
Isamaya Ffrench on beauty as art, culture and human connection.