• Swiss-Water Decaf and Other Signs of Gentrification

    Swiss-Water Decaf and Other Signs of Gentrification

    Without giving too much away (like my personal address) it is with great neutrality that I confess that my suburb is finally getting a makeover, and that my childhood home is most likely going to double in value within the next 5 years.

    There’s no denying the steady, almost bubonic sprawl inching further west with each passing year, as more and more funding goes into gentrifying our western suburbs to accommodate a growing population.

    At university, I quickly learned that most of my friends had no real idea where I lived—geographically or otherwise. Anything beyond the northern side of the bridge might as well have been regional.

    Maybe it was the internalised insecurity of growing up in a no-name suburb. Maybe it was the stigma of living somewhere that felt cryogenically frozen in 2002. Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was all my friends’ proximity to the coast, and my forty-five minute commute to a body of water, that really solidified our socioeconomic status on opposite sides of the spectrum. 

    But it’s 2026 now, and the living crisis in Sydney is at an all-time high. This means, for the first time in history, my suburb has been declared desirable by enigmatic TikTok real estate agents.  

    At a new coffee spot just minutes away from me—a converted warehouse, naturally— I sipped from my $10 cold brew, perusing the cafe’s Google reviews until the critique of a local foodie piqued my attention. 

    {Redacted} is the beginning of the end for this suburb: a sign that the creep of gentrification has truly reached its door.

    Try living next door to two high-rise apartment blocks, I thought.

    I kept scanning the familiar letters of my suburb’s name, in disbelief that anything remotely trendy could be synonymous with it.

    For as long as I can remember, the main promenade of my suburb could be compared to the likes of a vibrant international strip––growers and sellers spilling onto the road, crates stacked too high, fruit sweating in the sun. It was too unorganised to feel metropolitan, yet the war memorial standing proudly in the centre was enough to snap you out of the hallucination. 

    Fragments of my suburb brought great comfort to me—a Cash Converters, permanently wrapped in “Closing Down” banners that had gone all sun-bleached and torn at the ends. Butchers that shouted in foreign tongues: cash only. Produce bartered by little ladies perched on milk crates, who boomed incoherent specials into a karaoke mic. The token charcoal chicken shop we frequented for a Friday night treat. And other fronts. I’m sure. 

    I didn’t spend much time there, it was slightly out of the way from my side of town, but I often passed through on the way home.

    To me, it was iconic: bursting with no-frills culture and fast-paced calamity. It wasn’t my culture, exactly (you’d usually find me at the European deli in the adjacent suburb), but sometimes I wish I embraced it more, growing up. 

    For years, my friends and I caught up for coffee in the next suburb—fifteen minutes by bus felt like a necessary pilgrimage. I used to mourn the absence of a local café within walking distance from my house. Not just any café, but the kind tucked into the dormant remains of an old milk bar, or carved into a heritage building—you know the ones that line the streets of Surry Hills.

    Now we have Swiss-water decaf on our doorstep and pilates studios, multiplying at an alarming rate. It feels strange to realise things aren’t just changing here, but they already have.

    Recently, I immersed myself into the world of alternative medicine (because you either train for Hyrox in your late twenties or you start healing your gut). In the process, I discovered my suburb was riddled with Chinese herbalists, reflexologists and spiritual readers—services I had once travelled interstate to access. 

    What the hell? 

    With a smile, I tucked my medicinal herbs into my bag, waved at the jolly elderly couple, and walked home—peering into sage-infused studios, housing palm readers and other spots I’d saved on Google Maps along the way. Until recently, I would never have guessed I’d be wandering through my own suburb like a tourist.

    Upon reaching my street, I took in the emptied blocks of land, standing awkwardly beside five-storey apartment buildings, the drilling humming like white noise at the back of my mind. A young-ish woman in Doc Martens and purple hair slipped into the brand-new complex, a family trailing behind her with their two golden somethings. I took notice of the mass immigration of purebred oodles cashing up around town. 

    But in all honesty, it is nice to see new faces, from all generations and demographics. There’s a strange comfort in being surrounded by families and younger couples choosing to build a new life here. Choosing my childhood suburb to call home. 

    Despite the passage of time and everything that comes with it, the bustling, unassuming version of the town I grew up in is forever etched into my memory.

    And for now, I can’t deny the small indulgence of a $10 cold brew within walking distance.

    Is that so terrible to admit?

    Words by Yianna Tromboukis

  • The Afterlife of the School Uniform

    The Afterlife of the School Uniform

    When I think of school uniforms, I think of polyester polo shirts and creased, knife-pleated skirts, black dress shoes with scuffed toes, or socks that are permanently grey from wear. And, if I really want to get visceral with my description, the lingering smell of sweat from PE class and Victoria’s Secret Love Spell.

    In theory, the school uniform is supposed to symbolise equality and functionality. In practice, each uniform eventually becomes individual to the wearer, be it by a name scrawled on a fabric tag or the controversial choice of skirt length. The hyperreal uniform, by contrast, erases this messy, lived-in reality. It sanitises the worn, the dirty, the unfashionable, reducing the uniform to a set of recognisable elements: loafers, tartan and white blouses.

    The school uniform has become a clean slate—something that can be warped, projected onto, and eagerly leveraged by capitalism. There are both positives and negatives to this. On one hand, there’s the perpetuation of fantastical and harmful tropes about girls in uniforms that overwrite the reality of lived experiences in school. On the other, the aesthetic’s revival opens space for reinvention. For the uniform to become something new, detached from its old connotations.

    Outside the schoolyard, the uniform becomes a storytelling device in popular shows. Rory Gilmore’s (Alexis Bledel) innocence and intelligence is reflected in her modest, neatly pressed Chilton uniform. Meanwhile, the confident and fashionable Blair Waldorf (Leighton Meester) styles her uniform with loose ties, headbands, and thigh-high socks paired with heels.

    In Japanese anime, sailor-style uniforms signify youth, purity, and cuteness. Sailor Moon would not be herself without her blue-and-white sailor suit. In Ouran High School Host Club, the crisp male-style blazers parody privilege and aspiration, while the female characters in pleated skirts become symbols of both conformity and comic subversion.

    In South Korea, amusement parks like Lotte World have entire rental shops where visitors—many of them long past high school age—can hire a uniform for the day. The photoshoot is the point: giggling in blazers in a picturesque location, eating candyfloss, posing with cartoon mascots. These are all things we rarely did as actual students. School was, in reality, a full-time 9-to-3 burden, heavy with rules and growing pains.

    At risk of sounding dramatic, wearing the school uniform, and in particular the school skirt—as a real girl in real school—is a historically, politically and socially charged experience. The earliest school uniforms for boys in the 16th and 17th centuries were based on military dress. When girls were finally included in mass education, their uniforms were designed not for equality but for modesty, domesticity, and clear visual distinction from boys. The skirt was chosen to reinforce “femininity,” whatever society deems it to be.

    There’s something to be said about how successfully this idealised image of girlhood infiltrates the average woman’s wardrobe. Even I have a soft spot for tartan-patterned-anything and socks with black, shiny, Mary Janes. But perhaps there is a subtle message within all this—one that women have always been told: to never grow up. To never age.

    So what’s the alternative? Non-gendered uniforms?

    Maybe it’s not just about what we wear, but the freedom to decide—whatever that could look like. To view the uniform as something fluid, unbound by gender, age, or expectation. Designers like Sandy Liang are already doing that, turning the once-rigid silhouette into something playful, genuine and universal. That’s the best outcome of the uniform’s afterlife: a fantasy we can finally control.

  • Third Space Talks: Misbah Shaikh

    Close friend and muse of Third Space, Misbah, shares her beauty secrets, childhood memories, and the tender reckonings that come with womanhood in your twenties.

    Tell us! How does it feel to be the debut voice for Everyday Muses?

    Hehehe I’m both nervous and honoured!

    What do you know now that you didn’t know a year ago?

    Look, it took me 26 years to get here but I’m finally learning to trust myself more.

    Where do you go—mentally, physically, or otherwise—when you need quiet?

    I picture myself back in my childhood bedroom looking out the window, watching the snow fall quietly at night with the street lights reflecting a dreamy orange glow.

    What does your “third space” look like?

    Mentally and physically I’ve found solace in prayer!

    What’s your earliest memory of watching someone you love get ready?

    I don’t know if she’ll like this answer, but my sister and I shared a room for most of our childhood, and she would draw on the thickest line of eyeliner EVERY MORNING in high school. I remember just sitting on my bed, watching her get ready.

    Is there a scent, product, or practice that makes you feel most like yourself?

    I know everyone and their mother raves about Glossier You, but it genuinely is my holy grail scent! And always, L’Oréal Telescopic Mascara.

    What’s one beauty ritual you return to when everything feels a little off?

    Doing my eyebrows always resets it for me.

    We live for your sporadic fit checks on IG. What’s the secret to building an outfit that’s both chic and practical in Sydney’s unrelenting winter?

    Layering with Uniqlo HeatTech has been a saviour! Also: chunky knits and dark denim—I feel like I’m Rory Gilmore. Sydney’s winter is all over the place, so being able to layer is essential.

    What’s one piece that’s on your current rotation at the moment?

    My oversized black coat and black knit maxi skirt are worn at least once a week! A staple in my winter wardrobe.

    How does your culture influence what you wear?

    Ah, this is such a good question! I think when I was younger, I’d shy away from my culture, but as I grew up, I began to appreciate it a lot more! Now I’d say it influences every aspect of my life, including what I wear—I love me some modest fashion, which is a lot easier to hone into with current fashion trends. Also, a dupatta is not a Scandinavian scarf!!!