Why Are We All Wearing the Same Shoes?

The homogenising effect of St Andrews Style

I set out to write about the shoes of St Andrews and found that the suede trainer was more than a trend — it was a symbol. The suede trainer overruled the black knee-high boot, the ballet flat, the loafer, the boat shoe, and even the ‘standard’ trainer. The Adidas Samba and Gazelle, now near-ubiquitous, embody a larger phenomenon: the homogenisation of identity.

The suede trainer sits neatly alongside the TikTok-born “Clean Girl Aesthetic.” On the surface, both seem harmless: trainers that “go with everything,” or a style centered on clear skin and simple clothes. But together they form a uniform: one that flattens individuality into a pre-packaged look. If the clean girl is the face, the suede trainer is the foot. One polishes the body into a minimal, unthreatening ideal; the other grounds it in a shoe that promises chicness but delivers sameness.

In St Andrews, the trainer is everywhere, and almost always styled in the same way. Picture it: straight-leg jeans, a baby tee, oversized sweater, trench coat, and either a Goyard Artois or Longchamp Le Pliage. This formula repeats itself so often that spotting a deviation feels like an event. Yes, the trainers come in dozens of colors, but their cultural effect is the same — they erase difference, reducing the wearer to one more iteration of a pre-approved aesthetic.

The irony is that social media feeds are filled with people trying to present themselves as innovators. Yet when it comes to the suede trainer, there is no unique way to wear it. Its very popularity cancels the individuality it was meant to project. People buy into the myth that this shoe makes them chic, but in truth it advances a culture of conformity.

And conformity is not just tolerated here — it’s celebrated. At St Andrews, compliments on your outfit tend to come when you’re wearing the most unremarkable things: a trench, jeans, ballet flats. Standing out is not rewarded; blending in is. The result is a strange paradox: individuality is more comfortable than imitation, but the fear of rejection makes us cling to sameness. The suede trainer is both symptom and symbol of that paradox.

To be clear, this is not an attack on those who wear Sambas or Gazelles — I own a pair myself, worn nearly to pieces. Rather, it’s a call to consider what our clothing choices communicate. The cult of the suede trainer, and the clean-girl aesthetic it reinforces, has a classist undercurrent. Looking “effortless” is expensive: the skincare, the hair appointments, the designer totes. Yet the aesthetic demands denial. We are told this look is natural, “just good genetics,” when in fact it reflects time, money, and labor.

The suede trainer plays its part perfectly. It doesn’t detract, it doesn’t distract, and for some, that’s the ultimate victory. This pursuit of inoffensiveness fosters a culture that prizes conformity over individuality. The trainer blends in so smoothly that it erases the wearer, just as the clean-girl aesthetic erases the effort behind it.

Breaking out of that mould is frightening. To swap the uniform trainer for, say, snakeskin boots or something less predictable risks social discomfort. But trends fade; individuality endures. Trendfollowers are quickly forgotten, while those who resist the cult stand a chance of being remembered.

The suede trainer is more than just a shoe. It’s the foundation of a larger aesthetic — one that confuses sameness for style and compliance for confidence. There is no easy cure for conformist consumerism, but there is an antidote: reflection. Ask yourself why you want the thing everyone else has. Is it laziness? Fear? A desire for superficial belonging? Choosing clothes you actually like — rather than what the algorithm tells you to like — isn’t just braver. It’s easier. Pretending to be everyone else is the real work.

Illustration by Wikimedia Commons