Throughout my life, I’ve managed to gather quite a collection of scars. There’s one that spans the length of my left forearm, a token of a particularly gruesome football injury—let’s just say arms aren’t meant to bend in certain ways. Another, on my right calf, came to be after a poorly judged slide on a gravel kickball diamond during a play where, despite my valiant and idiotic effort, I was still out. A small and bumpy nodule sits rights above my hairline, courtesy of my third-grade sweetheart, who broke her tooth off in my head as we both dove for a ball during a particularly rigorous game of Ducks in the Pond. What can I say? I like to live dangerously.
However, of all the scars I’ve earned thus far in life I do have a particular favorite. It hasn’t secured this top spot for its size or location; it’s a small, thin scar that covers a couple inches on the back of my head—its visibility entirely dependent on the length of my hair. It’s number one for a simple reason: whenever I reach back to absentmindedly scratch my head and feel the slight ridges of this scar, I can’t help but smile as I remember the story of how it was earned.
It happened on a fine summer morning in my family’s new home—the first one I’d lived in with stairs. As my parents and siblings were spread about attending to various things, I was upstairs playing pretend—as most four-year-olds do. That day, I was portraying one of my favorite characters who came to life after I put a blanket on my head and pretended to have long hair. I’m not entirely sure why I was so drawn to this persona, but I think it stemmed from our mom’s strict buzz cut rule—I simply wanted what I couldn’t have. As I strolled through the unusually empty upstairs clad only in my long, flowing blanket hair and my Power Rangers underwear—talk about a look—I came across a box.
In this box, I discovered something magical: a pair of red high heels. At the time, I didn’t have a strong concept of gender, of the difference between “boy clothes” and “girl clothes”—all I knew was those shoes were cool, and I wanted to wear them. Sweeping my blanket bangs aside, I slid the pumps on and shuffled to the landing above the stairs, eager to descend to show off my dazzling outfit to my family below. I’m sure you can guess what happened next.
I took one step in those oversized shoes and the world became a blur as I tumbled down our stairs, only coming to a stop when I cracked the back of my head on the radiator at the base of the staircase. That’s where my parents found me—sprawled out in red pumps, a raggedy blanket, and Power Rangers underwear while bleeding profusely from a head wound. Fortunately, it looked far worse than it was, and I was back in action in no time—albeit with stern warnings from my parents to not take their things without asking or attempt to tackle stairs in anything taller than a kitten heel. As far as I was concerned, it was over and done with.
And yet, it wasn’t. While the tale of this tumble became an instant classic among our family and is a regular staple during nights of nostalgia, I quickly noticed others failed to see any humor in this story. You might think it was a concern based out of safety—as clearly demonstrated, I am quite prone to injuries—but it soon became apparent their distress stemmed from the fact that I, a boy, would ever even think of donning red high heels. Their message was clear: boys should only wear boys clothes, and the same held true for girls and their garments—anything else would be anarchy. At the time, I was confused as to why this was such a big issue; I didn’t understand what made clothes distinct or significant to “boys” or “girls,” but something about their disdainful and disapproving words sank in and, unfortunately, lingered in the corners of my mind for years to come.
Their negativity stifled a part of me for longer than I care to admit—the one that was confident enough to do or wear something simply because I thought it was cool, fun, or made me feel special. Instead, I conformed to the status quo—believing it was only permissible for me to wear and, by extension, act in a certain way to be accepted.
It’s a theme that colored many aspects of my younger life—even though I didn’t find much of what I was doing to be authentic, stimulating, or creative, I did it because it was what I was “supposed” to do. I’d learned if you do what’s expected of you, if you don’t rock the boat, people will generally leave you alone—and for a large part of my life, I was ok with hiding in plain sight. But try as I might, the part of me that reached for those red high heels that day lived on underneath all those layers of conformity. Slowly but surely, I picked away at that overly compliant crust to let bits of my true self shine through. It was in those moments where I felt truly alive and, by surrounding myself with friends and family who support me, I’ve been able to almost entirely shed that suffocating shell.
So, decades later, after years of personal growth, self-acceptance, and immersion in the LGBTQIA+ community, I was surprised to feel an intense fear creep in when the opportunity to perform in an amateur, charity drag show presented itself. It went beyond the fear of simple stage fright—it was deep panic at the thought of openly doing something so out of the box, so outside of the norms and expectations of my youth. I’d thought I’d left those shackles of conformity behind but here they were yet again, tethering me to a place of doubt, anxiety, and self-consciousness. Luckily, those years of growth weren’t for naught, and, despite my fears, I committed to the performance.
I wasn’t worried about putting on a stellar show—I’ll leave those to the well-manicured, immeasurably talented hands of true drag queens, who are incredible artists and performers in their own right. No, I was scared for all the same reasons as when I was a kid: of being thought of as weird, mocked, and losing the acceptance I had worked so hard to attain simply for doing something a bit different. Stepping on a stage in drag was an idea that had never even crossed my mind—it was a performance I never expected to or even believed I could do.
That’s exactly why I did it.
As soon as I stepped on that stage, I truly felt like I had grown for the better—it’s a moment I’ll always cherish. The confidence and freedom I felt dancing around belting “Good Morning Baltimore” in full Tracy Turnblad drag as friends crowded around the stage to sing along was indescribable. I had overcome my fear and had a blast while doing it. This made me question why I’d been so scared to seize this moment in the first place—it was fun, harmless, and pushed me to become a better, more confident version of myself.
This performance helped me reevaluate the many other moments in my life where the fear of not meeting the arbitrary expectations of others has held me back. Those moments of restraint did not make me feel joyful, alive, or inspired; in them, I felt trapped, uncertain, and scared to express myself. My experience in drag gave me a clarity I had been lacking—it’s not the moments of conformity that’ve led me to the best, happiest, and most vibrant moments of my life, but the ones where I’ve been brave enough to take a leap of faith to try something new.
Looking back, there are many moments—moving to a new city, coming out, and, of course, my brief dalliance with drag—that help me believe I can be brave, fearless, and continue challenging myself to grow. I’d like to think the man I am today is someone that blanket-haired, red-heel stealing kid would be proud of: a risk taker, an adventurer, and someone willing to try new things, even if I look foolish in the process.
Though I must admit, I did wear sneakers during my one and only drag performance—I don’t care how confident or brave I’m feeling, I know all too well just how dangerous strutting about in high heels can be.