I still remember prepping for my faculty’s annual research showcase in the U.S. I was finalizing my poster layout, adjusting colors, and rehearsing how to present my work. As I casually mentioned to some friends that I’d be wearing a pink blazer for the event, one of them—politely—asked if the color would “suit the vibe” of such a formal academic setting.
I didn’t have a sharp reply at the time, but the question lingered. Would a bright blazer affect how seriously people took me? Could color undermine my credibility?
It’s not lost on me that colors carry cultural weight. Black, white, or red can have different meanings depending on the context—mourning, celebration, or reverence. In academic spaces, though, there seems to be an unspoken rule: credibility comes in shades of black, navy, grey, or beige. Anything brighter can be seen as loud, unserious, or even inappropriate.
Yet I’ve seen brilliant women—professors, researchers—wear purple, orange, and yes, hot pink. Still, those examples feel like exceptions. The unwritten norm remains: dress muted if you want to be taken seriously.
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But I enjoy color. Not to perform femininity or seek attention, but because color makes me feel alive and present. I don’t wear pink because I’m “girly”, or red because I want to stand out, or yellow to look soft. I wear it because I like how it looks on me.
When I finally put on that pink blazer, paired with a white dress, soft-pink sneakers, and a simple headpiece, I wasn’t trying to make a statement. I just liked the look. It felt like me. And I remember thinking, ‘If anyone doubts my credibility because of my outfit, they can try me.’ Try my preparation. Try my ideas. Because I know what I’m doing.
I had worked hard on that research. I had spent hours reading, writing, editing, designing, and practicing. My blazer was the least important part of my presence in that room. But in a way, it became a quiet declaration that I belonged there exactly as I was.
No one commented on my outfit. People came to my poster, asked insightful questions, and engaged with my work. The blazer didn’t diminish the quality of my research. In fact, it became part of a moment I now remember with pride: a short clip of me was featured on my faculty’s Instagram, and my name was mentioned in our department’s newsletter. My friend and I were the only master’s students in our department to present posters that year.
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None of that recognition was about how we dressed. It was about our work and the confidence to show up fully as ourselves.
That’s the point.
Your value as a scholar or student isn’t measured by the color of your clothes. It’s measured by your ideas, your clarity, your voice. You can wear black or pink, sneakers or heels; it doesn’t change your intellect.
To anyone navigating professional spaces: wear what feels true to you. A sharp black blazer? Great. A flowy orange blouse? Also great. Sneakers with a suit? Go for it. A batik scarf over your research poster? Beautiful. Let your clothing reflect your identity, not someone else’s definition of professionalism.
We often talk about making academia more inclusive. That must include space for diverse expressions. Let’s make space for color, culture, softness, brightness, and joy.
Wearing that pink blazer didn’t make me less academic. It didn’t erase my preparation or my insight. It made me feel comfortable and whole while sharing work I was proud of. And maybe that’s what we need more of: people who show up as their full selves, confidently, unapologetically.
To the friend who asked about the blazer, thank you. You meant no harm, and your question helped clarify something deeper for me: my outfit doesn’t outshine my substance. It’s just fabric. What matters most is the person wearing it.
I’ve made other choices for myself too, like wearing sneakers to my master’s graduation. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
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I still remember waking up at 3 a.m. for my undergrad graduation, going to a salon for makeup, and wearing painful heels because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. I enjoy heels when I choose them, but that day, the choice wasn’t mine.
For my master’s ceremony, I knew it involved standing, walking, and waiting in long lines. So I wore sneakers. I felt grounded, comfortable, and joyful. And no less accomplished.
Martha Sooai is an interdisciplinary thinker who explores law, gender, and culture, based in Eastern Indonesia. She likes melted ice cream.
