Three Trans Women on the State of Fashion Today

Trans women have always had an impact on fashion. “We are integral to the community because we’ve never followed the rules,” says content creator Jamie Pandit. “No matter what people tell us every single day, we wake up and choose ourselves.”

If we understand gender as a social performance, then at its best, fashion becomes a vessel for this fluid exploration. The greatest examples of wearable art master transformation and queering the form, from Issey Miyake’s shape-shifting pleats to Thierry Mugler’s exaggerated proportions.

“Trans women embody a celebration of womanhood,” explains model Jazmine Carter. “We amplify everything that women have been told to keep quiet about—whether it’s the shapes of our bodies, how we view glamour or how we use sex appeal.” Lauren Sundstrom, Vancouver-based style creator, adds: “The fashion industry owes trans women, especially Black trans women, a huge debt.” We’ve reached a point in culture—amid trans erasure and blatant bigotry—where this understanding is more important than ever.

Below, these three fashion-minded Canadians open up about personal style, the state of the industry and their hopes for the future.

Jamie Pandit: “Trans women are not a trend”

“I grew up in Bangladesh, never knowing the word ‘transgender’ existed,” says Jamie Pandit. “I didn’t understand rigid stereotypes, I just loved fashion.” She recalls wearing nail polish, trying on makeup and playing with her mom’s sari at three years old. It wasn’t until she moved to Canada that she began thinking about gender identity. “After I came out to my parents, I ended up living at a shelter at 16, because my home environment didn’t feel safe,” she says. “That’s where I started to explore who I was. I remember going through garbage bins trying to find clothes that made me feel like myself.”

Pandit, who is beloved for having carved out a close-knit community on the internet (her bio reads “Trans Aunty”), has always dressed boldly. “From day one, my style has been I-am-here-no-matter-what vibes,” she says. But early in her journey, she felt a pressure to wear frills, show skin and lean into archetypal markers of womanhood. “I performed femininity to the point where I hated the colour pink,” she reflects. “After coming out in 2020, I feel like I’m living my life for the first time; I’m just wearing what makes me feel good.”

She credits her wedding dress for inspiring her to come out to people outside her immediate family. “I was having my dress designed, and I was like, ‘Oh my gosh. People are coming to celebrate me, but they don’t know who I am.’” The dress was imbued with meaning: sheer panelling showed new parts of her; floral embellishments symbolized fresh blooms.

When she came out, Pandit was met with support—especially by fashion and beauty brands who wanted to work with her. But she says there’s been a stark regression over the past year. “From 2020 to 2024, there was a lot of progress,” she reflects. “As an influencer, I saw Black women, curvier women and trans women being invited to fashion shows and being featured in magazines; more representation than ever before. But now, it feels like skinny is in. It’s really toxic.”

Ongoing attacks on trans rights have also led to trans women being excluded from fashion spaces. Pandit has experienced it firsthand. “Because being trans is so politicized, it feels like a lot of brands have abandoned me, and it hurts. It’s something I’m reminded of every day: feeling like I am just a trend. But trans women are not trends—we’re here 365 days a year, and we want to feel good about our clothes.”

This erasure also negates the fact that trans women are leaders in fashion. “All our lives, we have been told, ‘You can’t wear this, you can be this.’ We’ve always been revolutionary, we’ve always been resistant, and we’ve always broken norms.” She reflects on a recent shoot she did with MAC Cosmetics, for the brand’s Viva Glam campaign, where she was able to embody this ethos. “I wore a red latex dress with spiky studs,” she explains, adding that she wanted to communicate edge, visibility and fearlessness.

Going forward, Pandit hopes to see brands uplift all trans women, not just those that are most palatable to the mainstream. “We’re not a monolith—not everyone has to pass; not everyone is hyper-feminine; not everyone fits a mould.”

Lauren Sundstrom: “Trans women are everything to fashion”

Lauren Sundstrom’s modelling career started in the most unexpected of ways. She was working as a cashier at Vancouver’s London Drugs (“It’s where you go when you need, like, a hair-catcher for your drain”) and a photographer came through her till. “She said she loved my look and wanted to shoot me,” Sundstrom, who is now a full-time content creator, recalls. She uploaded the photos to a model networking forum and, at 19, she was scouted for a Vancouver agency.

When she began working overseas in 2010—surrounded by European clothes and models—her love for fashion really took off. “I had the privilege to be able to transition quite young,” she says. But at the time, her agent suggested she keep her transness a secret. “Unfortunately, it was a necessity to be silent,” she explains. “Everybody around me recommended that I just stay quiet, do my travelling, work and see what happens.”

Back then, this pressure informed her approach to getting dressed. “There was so much emphasis, especially early in my transition, on blending in, not drawing attention to myself, trying to pass,” she reflects. “And now that that’s no longer something that I care about, fashion is this fabulous expression of not giving a shit what people think about me.”

Sundstrom, who has an audience of 184,000 on TikTok and an eye for sustainable style, gravitates towards feminine silhouettes—something she describes as affirming. “At the end of the day, gender is largely a social performance,” she points out, adding that clothes are a part of it. “It’s a cliché that ‘a pretty dress makes you feel pretty’—but there’s nothing wrong with that…I think that we need to get away from the idea that femininity is somehow weak.”

@laurengsundstromThey always invited their boyfriends over once you were in bed. Dress is true vintage from the 90s :)♬ Blue Light - Mazzy Star

Although she’s a staple of fashion TikTok, she doesn’t consider herself a part of the industry. “Fashion has never felt like something that was accessible. It always felt a little discriminatory, not against queer people necessarily, but against poor people,” she says. “At some point, I realized it wasn’t something I want to be involved with, even though I love clothes.” And although mainstream fashion feigns inclusion, she still sees it as selective.

For instance, while it’s worth celebrating that Alex Consani was named Model of the Year, Sundstrom notes that she is still thin, white and conventionally beautiful. “I think it’s telling of what the fashion industry is willing to display as far as trans inclusion goes.” The same can be said about the most powerful creative directors. “Fashion is dominated by white gay men, so there’s limitations to the diversity within queerness.”

Still, Sundstrom emphasizes the far-reaching impact trans women—especially Black trans women—have had on trends. She references the Netflix documentary Disclosure, which breaks down the ways that trans women have historically been treated in the media. It details, for one, how many of the hyper-feminine aesthetics we see today were born from trans sex workers, who adopted those styles as a form of survival. “Trans women are everything to fashion,” Sundstrom says.

Looking ahead, she hopes we see “a return to inclusivity” and a less hyper-consumptive approach to shopping—two shifts that require systemic change. “Fast fashion brands like Zara are now selling pieces for hundreds of dollars; it’s heinous,” she says. “I implore anybody who has that kind of money to support the small guys.” One of her favourites is Nena Hansen, a Vancouver-based label that reimagines classic collared shirts through cut-outs, intricate folds and unexpected cinching. Overall, she longs to see the fashion industry be more democratized. “There are so many people who love style who just feel like they can’t be part of that world.”

Jazmine Carter: “It’s easy to say we want to open doors, but what does that actually look like?"

Jazmine Carter’s love for fashion comes from ballroom culture. Founded during the height of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, the underground queer scene has started a lot of the trends we see today—especially aesthetics of extravagance and sharp tailoring—Carter notes. At 18 years old, she joined Toronto’s community in search of trans representation. “I got to see not only people that looked like me, but these beautiful humans dressed to the nines, always stepping out with the utmost confidence.”

Since she was 10 years old, she had eschewed “men’s” and “women’s” sections, but ballroom empowered her to subvert fashion further. “I discovered all these textures, fabrics, shapes and silhouettes that made me feel not only affirmed, but glamorous,” she explains. “Ballroom allows you to break every single rule. If you want to be corny and cringe, go for it. If you want to wear the most sequins and rhinestones, go for it.”

Ballroom gave her an “armour or confidence” and inspired her to pursue modelling—resulting in her being signed by Sutherland Models. “I had just started my transition,” she recalls. “And they really understood where I was at.” Six years later at 24 years old, Carter is doing her dream job. “Every time I step on set, I think, ‘This is where I’m meant to be.’ I can feel it in my chest.”

When it comes to the fashion industry’s treatment of trans women, Carter has a “not necessarily love-hate, but love-side-eye” relationship with it. She notes that trans women have always been in the industry in some way, pointing to designers like Thierry Mugler, who cast them in runways in the ’80s and ’90s. On a mainstream level, however, she sees the industry’s attempts at inclusivity as overwhelmingly white-centric. “How do we get to a place where more trans girls of colour—maybe those who aren’t passable or who don’t want to pass—can be celebrated?”

She points to the viral rise of “Protect the Dolls”—a statement of endearment towards trans women that originated in ’80s ballroom culture—which has, in recent months, been made into T-shirts by designer Conner Ives and worn by celebrities like Pedro Pascal and Addison Rae. The sentiment is nice, but Carter urges people to remember who it’s for. “It’s not really about people like me, who can pass in a heteronormative society. It’s for the most marginalized women.”

In the modelling world, Carter says true progress can only come if those lacking resources are given industry opportunities. “Not everybody’s going to come in being the most polished model,” she notes. “Instead of turning them away for lacking certain skills, let’s ask, ‘How can we help support them?’ There is talent in those people, and they deserve a chance.”