I'm not going to lie: the first time I wore a corset, I felt like I had arrived. Not in a serious, philosophical sense—just in the way Nigerians say, "You package well." It was a black velvet corset with silver boning and a deep neckline that made everything look arranged. My hips were hipping, my chest was standing as if I owed it a favour, and for once, I wasn't pulling at my clothes. I looked good and I knew it. But, as I admired myself in the mirror, breathing carefully, a question tugged at me: if I believe women should not have to suffer to be seen, why am I still drawn to an outfit that quite literally takes my breath away? But despite the think pieces, the TikToks, the critiques of waist training and beauty politics, I still reach for that corset when I want to feel like the main character. And maybe, just maybe, that doesn’t make me a bad feminist.

Because, the truth is, feminism and fashion have never had a simple relationship. When it comes to clothes, there's always a quiet hum of contradiction—especially when they're designed to "shape" the female body. Are we reclaiming or conforming? Are we liberating ourselves, or are we merely remixing old restrictions with new language? I've seen the arguments, the think pieces, the Twitter threads, and someone typing " y'all still enslaved to the male gaze fr." I get it though. Corsets have a complicated history. They were once tools of control, tangible symbols of patriarchy, and a means of literally restricting women's breathing in the name of desirability. But history is layered. And fashion evolves. The same corset that once held women in place is now worn over t-shirts, paired with cargo pants, and rocked by men, non-binary folks, and anyone else who feels like it. It’s not just about shrinking anymore. Sometimes, it's about showing off. And that's where it gets interesting.

See, wearing a corset does not make me feel oppressed. I feel stylish. I feel curated. I feel like I've stepped into a character, a more confident, sexier version of myself. Is that vanity? Maybe. But I also believe people overlook how deeply personal dressing up can be. For some of us, clothes are armour. For others, it is soft power. Some people wear heels to feel tall, while others wear corsets to feel shapely. This does not imply that we have lost the plot. It means we're human, navigating a world that constantly tells us to be smaller, quieter, and flatter—and then chastises us for trying to look a little snatched. I’m not plus-size, but even with my slim frame, there are days I want more curves, more drama, more presence. And the corset delivers. It gives body where there is only outline. It makes you stand straighter, breathe slower, move with intention. And sometimes, that’s all you need to feel ready for the world.

But the questions remain: is it wrong to want that feeling? Can we really separate personal choice from societal conditioning? And should we even bother? I think a lot about the double standards women face. If a lady posts a selfie in a corset, she’s performing. If she critiques it, she’s overthinking. We can’t win. So what’s left is to choose our losses carefully. If loving corsets is my personal contradiction, then so be it. I can hold that tension. After all, feminism does not need constant alignment. It's about being mindful, being intentional, and allowing room for nuance. And, honestly, who better to handle contradictions than the modern Nigerian woman?

There’s also the cultural context. For many of us, especially those who grew up with aunties who tied their wrappers so tightly you’d think it was the wrapper holding their shape together, the idea of shaping the body isn’t new. It’s just been renamed. Whether it’s iro and buba, or midi skirts, the message has often been the same: present yourself well. Carry yourself with grace. Be desirable but not too revealing. Attractive but not attention-seeking. The lines have always been blurry. So maybe the corset is not the villain. Maybe it’s just another tool in a long line of beauty rituals—like threading your brows, gelling your edges, or squeezing into Spanx before a wedding. Are all these acts feminist? Not necessarily. But can you still be a feminist while doing them? I’d say yes.

Of course, there are limits. I've seen corset culture fall into dangerous territory—waist trainers promising a Coke-bottle shape in two weeks, influencers who won't admit they've had work done but promote unrealistic body dreams, and young girls fainting from skipping meals because their faja—a tight post-surgery compression garment often worn after procedures like liposuction or a BBL—“doesn’t allow food.” That’s not empowerment. That’s pressure. And we need to be honest about it. We can’t claim that every corset wearer is simply expressing herself freely. There is a clear line between choice and coercion, and capitalism, social media, and good lighting often blur that line. Still, I believe the answer is not to ban corsets, but to ask better questions. Who profits from our insecurity? Who defines what is desirable? And how can we wear something we adore without being owned by it?

For me, it comes down to agency. Not the Instagram kind with soft pink captions, but the real kind—the messy, imperfect, sometimes contradictory kind. There are days I want to throw on a big tee and forget my body exists. And there are days I want to be seen. Fully. Sharply. Deliberately. On those days, I might wear a corset. And I don’t owe anyone an explanation. That’s the power I want feminism to protect. Not the right to be constantly confident or politically pure, but the freedom to be complex. To dress up for no reason. To enjoy aesthetics without surrendering to them. To love things that aren’t always loveable. To be a little vain sometimes, and still deeply aware of what’s going on in the world.

We need to stop treating feminism and femininity as enemies. One isn’t weaker than the other. You can paint your nails and read Bell Hooks. You can burn down the system while wearing lace. The idea that looking beautiful and thinking critically are mutually exclusive is tired. We are tired. Women have always multitasked their way through expectations. We're allowed to wear the corset and question it. Love the effect, but not the history. Want the shape, but not the shame. It doesn’t make us confused. It makes us real. And sometimes, all a girl wants, is to be seen for who she is, layers and all.

So, yes, you can be a feminist and still love corsets. You can be both sensitive and intellectual, vain and visionary. You can desire to change the world and still want your waist to look snatched in pictures. What matters is that you know why you’re doing what you’re doing—and that you have the space to choose differently tomorrow, because that’s the real work: creating a world where every woman, whether she wears a corset or not, can own her body, her choices, and her contradictions. That’s feminism. That’s freedom. That’s fashion.