The Industry of "Look Good, Feel Good"
The beauty industry loves to sell us the illusion that looking good equals feeling good. And sometimes, it works. A slick of red lipstick can momentarily lift a mood, a well-cut blazer can feign control when you’re spiraling, and a skincare routine can act as a lifeline on the darkest days.

But what if the industry itself is built on the insecurities it pretends to cure? Studies show that 70% of beauty consumers purchase products to “boost self-esteem.” Translation: capitalism feeds off our existential crises. In fact, a 2023 survey by the Mental Health Foundation found that 60% of young women feel pressured to look a certain way, with social media fueling body dissatisfaction at a breakneck speed.
For me, the connection between beauty and mental health wasn’t just a research paper—it was lived experience. Five years ago, I fell down the rabbit hole of both: working in beauty journalism while battling a depressive episode so profound, it made Sylvia Plath’s poetry feel like motivational posters.

The Glow-Up That Wasn’t
I did what any self-respecting millennial with a penchant for avoidance would do: I threw myself into beauty trends. My logic? If I couldn’t fix my mind, maybe I could fix my skin. Or at least my eyebrows.

So, I became a willing guinea pig for every "life-changing" treatment, scrolling through research papers at 3 a.m. while my sheet mask dried into a stiff, papery coffin. I micro-needled my face into oblivion, drenched myself in snail mucin, and invested in serums with price tags that could rival therapy sessions. Did it help my mental state? Temporarily. Was my skin glowy? Also temporarily.

Because here’s the kicker: No amount of beauty products can cure depression. You can exfoliate your skin, but you can’t exfoliate your trauma. Believe me, I tried.

When Aesthetic Meets Existential Crisis
2020 hit, and suddenly, fashion took a nosedive into the abyss of our collective despair. Sweatpants became the global uniform, and "maskne" became a household term. I found myself analyzing how brands pivoted—some embraced the chaos (hello, #SadGirlAesthetic), while others doubled down on the promise of escapism (cue the Y2K fairy-core revival). It was a fascinating case study in human psychology.
A study by McKinsey & Company reported that 46% of beauty consumers started focusing more on self-care products during the pandemic. But was it self-care or just another coping mechanism? The industry pivoted to "wellness," rebranding face oils as "rituals" and gua sha as "spiritual healing." Capitalism, as always, found a way to monetize our emotional breakdowns.

Dopamine Dressing & The Great Fashion Mood Swing
Then came 2022, the year of dopamine dressing—fashion’s desperate attempt to inject serotonin into our wardrobes. The trend dictated that neon colors and maximalist prints could rewire our brains for happiness. Brands marketed clothes as if they were antidepressants, promising that wearing lime green would cure our existential dread.
Spoiler: It didn’t.

But what did happen was a broader conversation about how we use aesthetics to regulate our moods. As psychologist Carolyn Mair, author of The Psychology of Fashion, explains: "What we wear can affect our confidence, our sense of identity, and even our cognitive abilities." Translation: Sometimes, wearing a structured blazer tricks your brain into thinking you have your life together.

The Rise of "Sad Girl Aesthetic" & The Mental Health Merch Boom
If dopamine dressing was the industry's attempt to slap a serotonin filter on reality, then the "Sad Girl Aesthetic" was its moody, brooding counterpart. In the past two years, we’ve seen a massive rise in fashion and beauty brands capitalizing on depression-chic aesthetics—think Tumblr-era smudged eyeliner, oversized grunge sweaters, and merch that literally says "mentally unstable." A report from Edited found that searches for "grunge fashion" spiked by 78% in 2023, proving that looking melancholic is officially marketable. The question remains: Are we embracing our mental health struggles, or are we just romanticizing them for clicks?

The Real Transformation
Five years deep into this love affair with beauty and mental health, I finally realized the truth: The industry thrives on our search for reinvention. And depression? It thrives on making us believe that reinvention is impossible.

But here’s what I know now: Beauty can be both a mask and a medicine. Some days, it’s an armor—winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut through intrusive thoughts. Other days, it’s a prison—trapped in a cycle of buying "miracle" products that promise to fix what was never broken.

Real beauty doesn’t come from the latest serum or trending aesthetic. It comes from accepting that some days, you’ll be the main character in a perfectly curated outfit, and other days, you’ll be an extra in a hoodie and existential dread. And both versions of you are still worth showing up for.

So, will I stop experimenting with beauty trends? Absolutely not.
But now, I do it on my own terms—because I want to, not because I think it will save me.
And if depression and fashion insist on dancing together, at least I get
to pick the soundtrack.