Why Tanning Feels So Complicated For South Asian Women Like Me

Six weeks of summer break now feel like a distant memory. Blink and suddenly your free time is rationed out in annual leave days. Back then, summer followed a familiar pattern: in between playing Snake on my mum’s brick phone and reading my latest library book, I’d wait patiently for the first kid on our quiet street to knock on my door with the simple question: “Do you want to play out?” This usually meant transforming our empty driveways into makeshift cricket pitches, with green wheelie bins expertly placed as wickets, before taking turns to whack a tennis ball as far as we could. Hours in the sun inevitably left me with a tan, the mark of an enjoyable summer. But not everybody saw my tan as a badge of honour like I did. 

One day, I walked back into my house after a fun-filled afternoon, ready to relay tales of my (largely fabricated) sporting triumphs. Instead, my aunt led the conversation. She was in total shock — actually, disgust — at my darker skin tone, and scolded my mum for allowing me to play in the sun all summer. “You look dark just like that Bipasha,” she said with disapproval. She was referring to Bipasha Basu, a prominent Bollywood actress, who was heavily criticised throughout her career thanks to her darker skin. Basu was relentlessly picked apart for not being “fair and lovely” — a beauty standard thrust on South Asian women. As such, even her acting talent was called into question. The message from then on was clear: dark skin was not pretty. 

For South Asians, this is a deeply entrenched belief. Historically, darker skin has been associated with lower status, especially among outdoor labourers who spent significant time in the sun. Meanwhile, lighter skin was often considered the ultimate mark of privilege, wealth and a higher social standing. But fast forward to 2025, and this deep-rooted stigma is still pervasive among darker-skinned South Asians today. 

Being teased and likened to Basu was a regular occurrence during my childhood, and it was confusing. After all, Basu was beautiful; she was a Bollywood star for goodness' sake. So why were our similar skin tones such a bad thing? And why was it acknowledged with so much overt distaste? While it felt conflicting, I saw no appeal in hiding away from the sun just to stay fair. I didn’t recognise it then, but I’d later realise that this was colourism rearing its ugly head. 

I’m certainly not the only one who’s been side-eyed — or openly shamed — for enjoying some sun. In fact, this tension is commonplace in South Asian families. Bhavi*, who was 25 at the time, recalls returning from a beach holiday feeling herself. She’d attained a “nice glow”, but her family didn’t take the same view. They were worried she would look “too dark” for an upcoming wedding and Bhavi tells me that she was strongly encouraged to use tan remover to ensure she looked good in her sari. After this incident, not to mention a string of similar experiences that followed, tanning now has a derogatory connotation for Bhavi. Even if somebody genuinely compliments her tan, it still feels like a criticism: “I automatically take it as a negative thing,” she says.

South Asian beauty standards have long dictated the “right” skin tone, among other ideals such as clear skin and thinness. This has inevitably shaped our complex relationships with tanning — and inadvertently sun protection, too. Colourism and outdated beauty ideals also shape how — and if — South Asian women use sun protection. Sunscreen is rarely used for skin health, but rather to appease internalised fears of becoming “too dark”. In some cases, sunscreen is avoided altogether — and there is evidence to support this.

According to a 2024 study in the Journal of Racial and Ethnic Health Disparities, one-third of South Asian American respondents reported being more concerned about the prevention of tanning over skin cancer. This makes sense, given that sun protection advice for South Asians tends to be limited to: “Don’t get too dark, otherwise nobody will marry you.” In a similar vein, a 2025 study showed that 41% of surveyed South Asian adults said they skip sunscreen due to “low perceived risk” of sun damage. This goes to show just how little the benefits of wearing sunscreen are discussed in South Asian households, let alone taken seriously. 

It is unsurprising, then, that many South Asian women tell me they began their SPF journeys much later in life. Riya*, who is 43 next month, admits that she only started using sunscreen three years ago. It wasn’t a dermatologist or a skincare influencer that got through to her, but her 13-year-old daughter, who Riya says is “constantly schooling” her on the topic: “I genuinely never knew how much of a concern [sun damage] was,” she says, grateful to her daughter for pushing the subject. This is particularly heartening because, speaking from experience, getting a South Asian to change their viewpoint is no small feat. As a community, we are undeniably stuck in our ways, so Riya’s story is a reminder that the next generation of South Asians can be better informed and break the cycle.

Similarly, Meena*, 47, rarely used sun protection growing up, but began to take it more seriously in the last ten years. This became even more pressing after a recent health scare. Meena had a basal cell carcinoma — the most common type of skin cancer, usually caused by sun exposure — removed earlier this year. “I never thought I could get skin cancer,” Meena tells me. She was surprised to learn from her doctor that it was not down to new sun exposure, but rather the result of several years of UV exposure over time. Reflecting on South Asian attitudes around sunscreen, Meena points out: “Darker-skinned communities don’t really think about [skin cancer] as they’ve lived without sun protection for generations, so it’s pretty standard to not use any.” 

If there was ever a time for South Asians to rethink their relationship with sun protection, it’s now. Meena’s story tracks with what consultant dermatologist Dr Angela Tewari is seeing in the clinic. She tells me that skin cancer statistics and the demographics it affects have shifted since COVID: “The number of early melanomas, basal cell carcinomas and squamous cell carcinomas is increasing,” she explains. There’s data to support Dr Tewari’s anecdotal evidence. Skin cancer cases are on the rise and the projected numbers for 2025 are sobering. According to Melanoma UK, 19,513 people will be diagnosed with melanoma this year. In the US, the Skin Cancer Foundation estimates 212,000 new cases and 8,430 related deaths. 

While there is less data on skin cancer rates among South Asians, the risk is still very real and stories like Meena’s are a stark reminder of the price of dismissing sun care. This is especially important given the longstanding myths that “brown people can’t get skin cancer” or “brown people can’t burn”. I have personally shown the latter to be false. These beliefs clearly still hold a lot of weight in South Asian communities; nearly half of the surveyed South Asian Americans in the aforementioned 2024 study believe they are not at risk of skin cancer. 

London-based consultant dermatologist Dr Shaaira Nasir wants to dispel the falsehood that South Asians are somehow immune to skin cancer: “Even though melanin provides some protection against the sun's harmful rays, as [South] Asians we still need to protect our skin by using sunscreen,” she explains. She adds that sun exposure is cumulative and causes around 80% of our skin ageing. So where do you even start with sun protection? Dr Shaaira recommends a broad-spectrum sunscreen with SPF 30 to 50. “It’s worth investing in a tinted mineral sunscreen (containing zinc or titanium oxide) that will protect against both UV and visible light,” she adds. 

It sounds simple enough, but for many South Asian women, finding the right sunscreen is anything but. Many sunscreens on the market are guilty of leaving a lingering white cast, which may be another reason why sunscreen is often skipped. Of course, some products don’t leave the cast of shame, but they’re not always easy on the wallet. What the industry needs is innovative sun protection with brown skin tones in mind, as well as accessible price points.

Dr Tewari agrees that increased melanin is nowhere near enough protection on its own. Even more concerningly, she sees many South Asian patients with darker skin tones who are often worried about skin issues like hyperpigmentation — worsened by sun exposure — but far fewer who are considering the risk of skin cancer. To bridge this disconnect, Dr Tewari is keen to see South Asians not only protect their skin but also celebrate their skin colour regardless of the shade. “We all need to love and accept our skin tone,” she says, adding, “My patients of colour probably don’t appreciate how lucky they are to have a beautiful darker skin tone.” But the narrow goal of fair skin often means that we can’t see past the cultural constraints and aren’t thinking of the bigger picture when it comes to sun protection. 

I think it’s time to let go of the myth that melanin is some type of super shield — or worse, something to fear or be ashamed of. Our melanin makes us beautiful, yes, but it doesn’t make us invincible. We also don’t need to hide from the sun (despite what the whispers of cultural stigma might have you believe), but rather rewrite what sun protection looks like for us, with daily SPF and regular skin checks (perhaps even mole mapping) as part of that routine.

More crucially, we need a shift in the cultural conversation around sun care. There is an undeniable knowledge gap around this in South Asian communities, stemming partly from ignorance and generational beliefs. But as Meena’s “eye-opening” skin cancer experience shows, it has never been more important for South Asians to educate themselves, not just for their own sake but for future generations.