Prologue

I’m not wearing the clothes I want to wear.

It was a simple, fleeting thought—so subtle that I could easily have missed it. But for some reason, I caught it and chose to pay attention—and I’m glad I did. That single moment sparked a profound personal journey. Not only did it lay the foundation for this book—it transformed my life forever.

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 nothing at all, and everybody dances like there’s no tomorrow. The first time a friend invited me to this party, I immediately declined—I couldn’t picture myself in a place like that. But over the days that followed, my curiosity beat my judgment and I decided to join her after all.

As I wandered through the crowded dance floors, my preconceived notions evaporated quickly. I saw things I never imagined seeing in real life, but none of it seemed a big deal. I saw people wearing what they wanted, dancing how they wanted, and unapologetically embracing their queerness and sexuality. I was deeply intrigued by all of it.

My partner and I were sitting on a black, leather sofa in one of the smaller rooms. The music was less loud 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 said, “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.”

“Yeah, why not,” she said as she smiled and give me a kiss. Our conversation moved on, and the thought faded from my mind—but it resurfaced months later during a dull moment at work. This time, it was accompanied by a clear image 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 want to go out like this tonight,” I wrote. “Are you in?”

The moment she replied with a “yes!” a mix of nervousness and excitement came over me. I closed my laptop and jumped on my bike to go shopping.

That evening, we arrived at a small queer nightclub in the heart of Amsterdam. Before heading to the dance floor, we stepped into a changing room. I took the clothes from my bag, carefully laid them on a bench, and peeked my head around the corner to see what others were wearing. My shoulders dropped as I took in the image. Aside from the bartenders, only one other visitor had made an effort to dress up. Everybody else wore jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

“Do you want to wait?” my girlfriend asked.

“Yes,” I thought. I wanted to wait. I wanted to abandon the plan and go home. But this idea had been with me for months now, and I couldn’t let it go. So, “No,” I heard myself say. “I came here to do this.”

I got changed and slowly walked into the club. Unsure where to look, what to do with my hands, or what to do with myself in general, I made my way to the bar, where the bartender greeted me with a smile. As I waited for our drinks, I focussed on the music and calmed myself by slowly breathing in and out.

I looked around the room and realized that most people weren’t paying much attention to me. The few people I crossed eyes with gave me a genuine smile. Someone gave me a compliment. Gradually, I began to feel at ease.

At some point, the owner of the club walked up to me. He playfully insisted that I 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 in the room and knew that they could see me just the same. To my surprise, I enjoyed it. I felt like I had jumped out of an airplane, not only to find out I had a parachute, but also that an excited crowd awaited me on the ground.

Over the years that followed, my desire to dress more feminine grew. I often caught myself looking at the clothes of female-presenting people on the street. I admired how they moved their bodies and wondered how their clothes would look on me. I envied their ability to walk into a store and try on a dress without standing out. Slowly, I began to expand my horizons.

I visited the club enough to get to know the bartenders. I walked around Berlin in tights and a long t-shirt. I attended my office Christmas party in a dress. One day, when Amsterdam was in lockdown because of COVID-19, I biked through the city in broad daylight wearing a dress. Near the end of my ride, I spotted an old friend ahead of me. My heart pounded in my chest and adrenaline surged through my veins. Without thinking, I pulled the

handlebars to the left to dive into a side street. I raced home, ran up the stairs, and collapsed on the couch.

As I stared at the ceiling, a single question emerged: “Why is this such a big deal?”

Why didn’t I want my friend to see me in a dress? Is there really such a big difference between a dress and a long t-shirt? Between tights and skinny jeans? Or shorts and a skirt? When I compared the shapes of the fabric or imagined the sewing patterns, the differences seemed minimal. And even if the differences were bigger—why should anyone care which clothes I wear?

I hadn’t always cared for this myself. As a kid, I dressed up in my mom’s clothes all the time. At the age of twelve, I performed in the school musical wearing high heels and a red dress—and I loved it. But that was the last time I wore feminine clothes. Until now, I hadn’t even realized that I had stopped. Somewhere along the way, I seemed to have forgotten that part of myself.

I began to wonder: What other parts of myself have I forgotten? What have I rejected? How else have I limited myself—and how are we all limiting ourselves? How often do we keep ourselves small to fit in, to meet the expectations of others, or to uphold our own beliefs of who we’re supposed to be?

I remained intrigued by these questions for years to come. What started as a desire to dress how I wanted evolved into a deeper journey of learning to listen to my inner world—the thoughts, emotions, desires, and physical sensations—and express myself accordingly.

I learned to voice my thoughts constructively and became a better listener. I started using my emotions to navigate my life with greater clarity and confidence. I grew more comfortable communicating and acting on my desires, while staying attuned to the needs of others. I learned to enjoy, appreciate, and care for my body—through physical self-expression and interactions, such as dance or sex.

Of course, I still face challenges: moments of conflict or loneliness, unmet desires, crossed boundaries, and difficult emotions. My life hasn’t turned into a fairytale. But what has changed immensely is how I navigate the ups and downs of life. This shift has profoundly impacted my friendships, family dynamics, love life, work, and the relationship with myself.

It all happened by learning to relate differently to the present moment. As I strive to demonstrate throughout this book, we shape the quality of our lives one moment at a time.

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In any case, thanks for making it this far!

 

Mette