Why Goth Culture Still Matters
Why Goth Culture Still Matters
Growing up in a rural town, raised by two people two generations older than me, I always knew I didn’t fit. I was reminded of it daily. I didn’t look right, act right, or think right by anyone’s standards—and they let me know. I felt like a caged animal most of the time. The other kids didn’t dress like me, didn’t talk like me, didn’t move through the world like I did. I was the quiet, weird one. Morbid. Off. Unsettling. The boys thought I was a weirdo, the girls whispered that I was a witch.
Even my grandparents chimed in with their little digs—mocking my makeup, criticizing my clothes, shaking their heads at who I was becoming. As if I hadn’t already learned to hide myself well enough.
By the time I hit high school—smack in the middle of cornfields, in a town with a church on every corner and a bar across from each one—I had stopped trying to fit in and started trying to survive. I wasn’t winning any popularity contests. I didn’t have the luxury of blending in.
Everyone around me wanted me to be smaller. Softer. Sweeter. More normal. A pink, pretty, well-packaged version of whatever they thought a girl should be. At school, I was expected to make good grades so I could build a respectable future. At home, I was expected to play house like a good little wife-in-training. I couldn’t wear too much makeup without catching hell. I couldn’t wear too much black without someone asking if I was headed to a funeral. (Joke’s on them—I felt like I was attending my own every single day.)
Looking back, a lot of the trouble I got into—the older kids, the older boyfriends, the sneaking out, the parties—was just me trying to find a place where I could breathe. A space where I could just be. And when those spaces didn’t exist, I made them, even if they weren’t healthy. Even if they led to worse places. I think a big part of why I ended up addicted in the first place was because I’d spent my whole life being punished for trying to exist as I was.
Years of being shamed and shut down shredded what little self-esteem I had. But here’s the good news: I got clean. And then I stopped giving a damn about what anyone else thought. I stopped pouring time, energy, or emotion into people who wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.
Now? My entire wardrobe is black. My office is black. My bedroom is black. My life is black and white, and it’s exactly the way I like it. And while I still get side-eye in the supermarket and the occasional comment from family, I don’t care. Not even a little. These days, I get more compliments than criticism. Sometimes I don’t believe them—I look around to see who they’re talking to—but they’re for me. People see me now, and they get it. Or they at least respect it. Either way, I’m not changing.
Goth isn’t just an aesthetic. It’s not eyeliner and platform boots. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a rejection of conformity. It’s an embrace of the beauty in darkness, of truth over trend, of authenticity over acceptability.
Why does goth culture still matter? Because we still live in a world that tells people—especially girls, especially queer kids, especially the mentally ill or neurodivergent or marginalized—to shrink themselves down and fit inside boxes they were never meant to survive in.
It matters because we matter. Because being yourself fully and shamelessly is one of the most radical things you can do in this world.
I’m 36 years old, and I’ve never felt more alive. This isn’t a phase. This is who I’ve always been. And this is who I’ll be until I die.
So go ahead—wear the black. Play the music. Get the tattoo. Be too loud. Be too much. Be exactly who you are.
Because life’s too short to be anything else.