Prologue
“If you really knew me,” says the person in front of me, “you would know that I sing in the shower every single morning. You would also know that I never ever sing in front of others.” A slight smile appears on their face as they turn their head towards the person next to them.
“Okay, let’s see,” the next person says. “If you really knew me, you would know that I have around three great business ideas per year but that I never do anything with them. I would really like to change my job, but I’ll probably keep working as a caregiver until the day I retire.”
“If you really knew me,” says the next person, “you would know that I have only 3% vision in one eye. You would know that I have regular panic attacks because I’m afraid of going blind. I had a really bad one this morning and I almost didn’t make it here because of it.” She slowly looks around and meets the eyes of some of the other people.
It’s the week before the December holidays and I’m visiting Amsterdam to see family and friends. I’ve gathered eight of them around a long table in my favorite Sichuan restaurant in the city. Bright light bulbs are shining through the red paper lanterns that are hanging above us. Two pots of Jasmin tea have just been brought to our table. A few minutes earlier, one of my friends proposed to play a round of “if you really knew me.” The aim of
the game is not only to share something that others don’t know about you—it’s to share something that you don’t want them to know. Everyone agreed to the proposal, so here we are, revealing parts of ourselves that we tend to keep out of the light.
“If you would really know me,” the next person goes, “you would know that speaking in front of groups terrifies me. You would know that underneath this grown-up, successful adult that I portray to be, there’s still an insecure, little girl. You would know that I’m scared right now as I’m talking to you and that it’s really hard for me to stay present.” Her eyes water up and her lip starts shaking.
She sits in silence for a moment and finally turns her head towards me. After we take a breath together, she nods, signaling that it’s okay for me to continue. “If you really knew me...” I say hesitantly. “If you really knew me, you would know that I wet my bed until the age of sixteen. You would know that it started when two kids peaked over the door of a toilet cubicle I was and that I felt uncomfortable in public bathrooms until well into my twenties.” I look around the table to take in my friends’ compassionate looks. My heart is beating in my chest, but a warm glow is coming over me at the same time.
I allow myself to turn inwards, and realize that I feel closer to the people around this table than I felt to many of the people I’ve known throughout my life. Once again, I’m aware how uncommon it is to show ourselves in such a vulnerable way. And once again, I’m grateful that these kinds of interactions have made their way into my life over the past few years and for the turn my life has taken. I’m grateful for the moment when I unknowingly embarked on the journey that made all of that happen.
The thought that started it
This book is the result of a journey that started eight years ago, when I was thirty years old. It started with a thought that was so small that I could have easily dismissed it. I could have ignored it and continued with my night like I had done so many times before. But this time, I chose to listen. This time, I paid attention to the thought. Superficial as it might seem, the thought was this: I’m not wearing the clothes I want to wear.
It happened on a Saturday night. My partner and I were at Wasteland: a massive techno party where thousands of people dress up in leather, latex, lingerie, or simply no clothes at all, and everybody dances like there’s no tomorrow. The first time a friend invited me to this party, I immediately told her no. I couldn’t imagine myself in a place like this. But my curiosity beat my judgment over the days that followed, and I decided to join her after all. At the party, my preconceived ideas left me in a matter of minutes. My body relaxed into this place where people had complete freedom to wear what they wanted, to dance how they wanted, and to embrace their queerness and sexuality. I saw things I wouldn’t expect to ever see in real life, and for some reason none of them seemed to be a big deal.
My partner and I were sitting on a black, leather sofa in one of the smaller rooms. The music was not as loud as in the main dance area, so we could actually hear each other speak. Both somewhat intoxicated, we were having a conversation that was more honest than I was generally capable of at that point in my life. “You know,” I told her, “I want to do something different.”
“What do you mean?” she replied with a voice that was both gentle and excited.
“The next time we go to a party like this, I don’t want to dress like the other guys. I want to dress . . . more feminine.”
She smiled and gave me a kiss. We spoke about it for a minute or two, until our conversation took us elsewhere.
The thought came back—a few months later during a dull moment at work. This time, I had a vision of what I wanted to wear: black boots, a black g-string, black see-through tights, and nothing else. I found some images online and sent them to my girlfriend: “I wanna go out like this tonight. Are you in?” The moment she replied with a “yes,” I jumped on my bike to go shopping.
Six hours later we set foot inside a small, queer nightclub in the center of Amsterdam. We stepped into a small changing room that was located between the front door and the actual club. I hesitated as I took my outfit out of my backpack. I peaked my head around the corner to see what other people were wearing. My shoulders dropped as I took in the image: Pretty much everyone was casually standing around—wearing jeans, t-shirts and sneakers. Only the bartenders and one other visitor had made an effort to dress up. “Do you want to wait?” my girlfriend asked me. “Yes,” I thought. I wanted to wait. I wanted to abandon the plan. I wanted to go home. But it had been on my mind for months now. So I paused and took a deep breath. “No,” I heard myself say. “I came here to do this.”
I got changed and slowly walked into the club. Not knowing where to look, what to do with my hands, or what to do with myself in general, I made my way over to the bar and ordered two drinks. The bartender greeted me with a smile. As I waited for the drinks, I took a moment to settle in. I focussed my attention on the music and calmed myself down by slowly breathing in and out. I looked around and realized that most people didn’t pay much attention to me. The few people I crossed eyes with gave me a genuine smile. Someone gave me a compliment. Slowly, I could feel my body relax. I began to calm down.
At some point, the owner of the club walked up to us. He playfully insisted that we should be dancing on the stage
and managed to convince me. Moments later, I was dancing on the platform in front of the DJ. I could see every single person on the dance floor and knew that they could see me just the same. Surprisingly, I enjoyed it. I felt as if I had jumped out of an airplane—not only to find out I had a parachute, but that there was even an excited crowd waiting on the ground.
Over the years that followed, my desire to dress more feminine grew. I mostly suppressed it, but allowed myself to connect with this wish from time to time. I slowly expanded my horizons. I visited the club enough to get to know the bartenders. I walked around in tights and a long t-shirt one day in Berlin. I attended my office Christmas party in a dress.
One day, I put on a dress and went for a bike ride through Amsterdam in broad daylight. I was close to home when I spotted an old friend some thirty meters in front of me. I panicked. My heart was beating in my chest. Adrenaline made its way through my veins. I pulled my bike’s handlebars to the left and turned into a side street. I cycled home as fast as I could, rushed up the stairs, and let my body fall onto the couch. As I stared at the ceiling I was left with a question:
Why is this such a big deal?
Why shouldn’t my friend see me in a dress? What’s the difference between a dress and a long t-shirt anyway? What’s the difference between tights and skinny jeans? Between shorts and a skirt? When I compare the shapes of the fabric or imagine the sewing patterns, the differences are minimal. So who cares which clothes I wear?
I surely didn’t care about it myself when I was younger. As a kid, I dressed up in my mom’s clothes all the time. When I was twelve, I sang a song in the school musical. I wore high heels and a bright red dress and I had a great night. But for some reason,
I never wore feminine clothes again. I never consciously realized that I stopped doing so. And I pretty much forgot that it had ever been my thing.
It made me think. Which other parts of myself have I suppressed? Which parts have I forgotten? How else have I been limited? How much have I limited myself? How much are all of us limiting ourselves? How often do we keep ourselves small in response to societal norms, to meet the expectations of others, or to live up to our own beliefs of who we need to be?
It wasn’t the first time that I asked myself these questions. They had come up in other moments of my life. But never before had they been so alive. Never before did they end up staying with me for years on end. And never before had they had such a profound impact. They changed the way I see myself. They changed the way I look at people and they changed the way I think about the human experience. They brought me closer to my essence than I could have ever imagined. And they inspired me to dedicate a significant chunk of my life to writing this very book.
Want more?
I can send you a link to the entire text. All I ask is that you let me know what you thought of it. I use a tool that makes this super easy. Interested? Let me know!
It's also possible to see the table of contents or to pre-order the actual book.
In any case, thanks for making it this far!
Mette