Earlier this year I believed I was a woman;

I was in the wrong body. Everything society has taught me about what it means to be masculine, about being a man—

strong.
Protective.
Direct.
Stoic.
Dominant,

—is everything I’m not. I was good at performing masculinity in order to fit in, but it didn’t always feel good for me. I’m not saying I can’t genuinely embody these socially-indoctrinated masculine traits that are now stained into the skin of men, I can and when needed often do. But ‘fitting in’ comes at the cost of hiding the rest of who I am; I’m unsure of the point in my life where I began hiding all the things society sees as feminine:

sensitive,
artistic,
open,
gentle,
nurturing,
and beautiful—

I’m not really sure knowing, when, matters anymore. What I’m left with is what often feels the insurmountable task of remembering who I am beyond what the socially constructed gender norms tell me I should be; I have struggled (for most of my life) to find a sense of identity.

With this remembering brings moments where the weight of my performance feels unbearable—I don’t want to fit into the uniform of what a man is supposed to be; I feel a rage inside of me so deep and so alive it compels me to wear the very armour I’m so keen to remove. But even with the weight of this task I carry or the agony I feel of being pulled apart in the battle between authenticity and conformity, I can’t give up. Determined or masochist; it’s a thin line.

I’m currently sat at my desk wearing a skirt I made with a pretty floral-print fabric, black combat boots and a navy t-shirt while my painted (now flaking) fingernails dance on the keyboard. And it’s easy for me to admit this sat behind a computer screen away from real living people. Yet ask me to leave the house wearing a skirt—or anything that doesn’t betray my Oscar nominated performance of masculinity—and my confidence will buckle like a paper bridge in a rain storm.

I’ve worn a skirt in public twice and both times felt like a death sentence around my waist.

The (masculine) clothes I now often reluctantly wear feel more like a uniform than an expression of who I am; every step I land on this planet feels like a hammer hitting yet another nail into the coffin of who I want to be. Every day that I wear the uniform society tells me is acceptable for the gender they assign me, I can’t help but feel I am falling back in line like a “good little boy“. And by doing so I not only shrink myself to take up less space in the world but I come face-to-face with the same conditioned judgements I used to have of others.

I believe social conditioning to be one of the hardest things in life to emancipate.

I’m now having to truly face myself; a product of a society where my judgemental thoughts represent the status quo, and I must grow and evolve beyond that if I am to genuinely meet the real me—it’s not easy.

The Binary Trap: Swapping One Uniform for Another

It’s been a couple of years since I formally released the salutation of Mister. I think on some level I rebelled against societal masculinity and became angry and lost (though I’m unsure the present moment ought to be that much of a stranger; I don’t always need to know where I’m supposed to be going—another societal mishap).

During this time I began changing my uniform of baggy jeans and hoodies or shirts to tight jeans and woolly jumpers, t-shirts and underwear and footwear from the “women’s section”; if I didn’t fit the masculine uniform then I needed to adopt a more feminine expression—I had to fit into either camp in order to land fully in my body, surely?

We are taught gender is binary—there are boys and there are girls and then there are (what I became) those people.

To me, gender feels more like a construct designed to separate humanity based on beguiled differences.

But the only honest difference is obvious. Isn’t it? And even though I’m currently wearing clothes designed for women, I find myself trying to somehow balance (overcompensate, perhaps) the scale by being extra ‘manly’—it all just feels wrong.

So what’s really going on here? On some level I feel as though I’m rejecting masculinity by adopting femininity. But underneath this lies the fact I’m still trapped into a binary system by relinquishing one set of labels only to clothe myself (literally) in its opposite. I’m gender hopping: I’m using clothing to show I am not in support of society’s version of man, which only serves to perpetuate the façade and the divide of my humanity and gender.

I’d like to a’dress (I couldn’t help myself) this further: if I wear a skirt I might feel feminine to a degree, but is that because we have attached gender to cloth? Prior to The Great Masculine Renunciation men wore high heeled shoes, bright and flamboyant fabrics and skirt-like outfits and were never treated as anything less than the men they were. If anything it served as a symbol of high social status and great wealth.

Can you imagine a world where this trend continued? If it did, would I get to feel the comfort of being truly authentic?

There is immense power in the fabric we choose to adorn our bodies, but where does this power come from? Why is the skin we choose to wear so damn controlling influential?

Control: The Silent Pacifier Of Society

Even though I was still in uniform (albeit one which belonged to the wrong gender) I had left the warmth and comfort of the conformist herd. I had taken a wobbly step into a freedom of sort, into a conscious choice to dress differently to what is expected, accepted or valid;

it’s one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done.

In doing this I became acutely aware of the comfort I feel (and at times crave) from the approval of others. But this comfort comes at a cost because in order to be validated, accepted even, I have to acquiesce my freedom of choice. There is a name for this type of behaviour—I believe it to be

control.

And where there is control usually lies danger. The dangers I faced were not only in my unawareness of this control, but also that on some deeper, subconscious level I needed it because I need to feel safe in the world. I need to feel like I belong. And because of this hard-wired (and in my opinion, outdated) need for survival, society is able to play the pied piper; we all follow a melody that’s now been playing for so long the tune is heard without the instrument being played—the silent pacifier.

But no matter how beautiful a song it seems to be, I could never manage to shake the existential anarchy I feel. And although fitting in saves me the pain of entering the terrifying venture into my own autonomy, it also locked the gates to the possibility of learning who I truly am. And because of this I’m now having to learn who I might be and in place of excitement and wonder stands judgement and abuse;

I say this without shame, it’s an absolutely terrifying journey.

How do I free myself from the weight of society?

I often reflect and wonder if this blanket of silent control is real or imagined. Afterall, nobody has ever said anything to me (not really)—it’s more a behavioural thing I notice in both strangers and people I am close to. Is it true that often the words we do not speak are the loudest? And because there is no ‘concrete’ personal evidence I then find I stumble between gaslighting myself and giving these people the finger, neither of which feel good (well, the latter is arguable).

I feel gender is a role I am implicitly playing; a performance. No longer is it a nuanced experience or an expression of the ways in which I embody unique energy. As long as the binary system exists I will always feel like society’s puppet—until, that is, I build up the courage to cut the strings, leaving the Master high and dry.

A Time For Change: From Renunciation to Reclamation

I have have spent my lifetime trying to squeeze myself into (gender binary) boxes I don’t believe were ever supposed to exist. I wonder why I used to make such an issue of a division between people with a vulva or a penis? Why was am I so sensitive and judgmental about what people wear or how they carry themselves?

Nobody has monopoly on what it is to be human; yet I remain under the watchful eyes of society as if my hands are tied behind my back with shame.

As a society are we perpetuating this despicable division of gender by solidifying it with movements that try to equal the balance? When there needn’t be balance—because there needn’t be a division. It might sound like I’m shitting on feminism or trans rights, I’m not and I fully understand why these social movements happen—and I support them. I believe people should never be treated differently; there should never be any type of division between humans where one side is treated favourably over the other, gender or otherwise.

I find it heart-breaking (and exhausting) that my humanity is broken down and exploded into divisible, separately controlled facets when I should be seen for the diamond of who I am: whole and complete and unique and beautiful.

It’s been a couple hundred years since men relinquished the right to be seen as beautiful. Over two hundred years of being seen simply as useful; more than two centuries of wearing a drab uniform to reflect the dull adage. I feel I am more than that (though I am useful).

I sometimes wear clothes designed for women. I sometimes paint my nails and wear makeup. Not because I perceive myself as or want to be a woman (which if it were true would be quite alright). I wear them because they feel good for me, because I like how I look and because it’s just how I (want to) roll.

Gandhi famously urged people to be the change they wish to see in the world, which, in todays society takes insurmountable courage; that is to be different and swim against the current of normalcy. And I’m of contradictory minds where I feel I shouldn’t need courage to be myself. Yet if authenticity wasn’t an act of courage, would the bravery of becoming mean as much as it does? Would it be so moving, so freeing and so inspiring if being different was our current normal?

I am slowly reclaiming my right to be more than just useful—I am reclaiming my right to feel and look beautiful. I am reclaiming my right to be me.

Authenticity and The Choice: The Great Human Reclamation

There’s an intoxication to be found in giving no fucks what people think of you, of leaving the herd to be your own pack. I’m reminded of a scene in the film Joker where Arthur Fleck finally becomes the Joker, dying his hair and dancing to Gary Glitter’s Rock ‘n’ Roll (Part 2)—he finally finds his own groove. (As an aside, it’s probably my most favourite movie in the history of film.)

A few times in my life I’ve noticed when someone is absolutely living their own narrative and to witness it brings me such immeasurable joy. What follows is usually the internal wish that I could be just like that—if only I weren’t so petrified of trying.

I want to give myself permission to get lost, publicly—it’s the only way I think I’ll find the person I’ve buried.

All I desperately want is to be told I look great, that it’s ok to wear what I want, that I am accepted by you (and me) regardless—that it’s ok to fully be me in all my messy splendour. I crave the permission of others even though, intellectually, I know the only permission I need is my own. I wonder who I’d become if I could wave a magic wand and rid the world of judgement, scrutiny and expulsion.

Is the price of authenticity really going to be rejection? Judgement? Ridicule?

As a society we are now starting to speak aloud and urge for authenticity—but is remaining within a socially constructed container truly authentic? I’m not saying I need to undergo major shifts against society to display authenticity. But the question has to be asked: even after healing trauma and letting go of maladaptive behaviours, can I search my heart and say with honesty that I am living exactly how I want to live? Or am I still abandoning the things that would have me living my best life?

The people who have helped shape this world are the people who refuse to fall in line.

Every morning I ask myself, am I ready to cut the apron strings—remove the uniform—and feel the frigidity of society?

Am I really ready to take back my freedom, knowing the cost?

Or will I continue to suckle on the silent pacifier in order to feel the warmth of the herd?

It’s a truly terrifying decision to make and one that will define my life going forward. A decision that is not only forcing me to acknowledge, but let go of this infant-like dependency for emotional safety—which my Neanderthalic psychology perceives as a method of physical survival—and to let go of the need to be validated, welcomed and loved by others where without it I feel I will die.

As I walk this peaky path of autonomy I seem to have more questions than answers—

Is my authenticity really worth the comfort of a herd who silently desire the same freedom? Or am I content with hiding from who I might be?

Is it connection I seek, or a body to ease a chronically dysregulated nervous system?

At times I feel like I’m going crazy and chasing my own tail. But I am slowly beginning to embody the fact that all the validation and love and emotional safety I need, I already possess.

I’m not sure I’m at the stage yet where I can confidently leave the house in the clothing that makes me feel authentic, but I’m getting there, one garment at a time.

I will leave you with this poignant and insightful quote from clinical psychologist and feminist, Harriet Lerner:

Only through our connectedness to others can we really know and enhance the self. And only through working on the self can we begin to enhance our connectedness to others.

There’s a lot to unpack from this quote but I’ll save it for another post!