While I’m in my masc identity, I often consider it an opportunity to be the things I would like to see more of in men.
I want to be gentle and polite. Soft spoken but with natural confidence -not the kind fabricated purely to prove one’s masculinity. I am washed and well-groomed -combed hair and clean fingernails.
I don’t want to be sloppy or unkempt. I want my wardrobe to be clean, curated and tailored. I wear suits, button-down shirts, ties, suspenders and sometimes even cuff links.
I want women to feel safe around me. I want to appear calm and collected, but not afraid to show emotion or share feelings. I am sentimental, and enjoy beautiful things and cute things.
I will not allow myself to fall victim to the mentality that being in touch with my feminine side compromises my masculine side, in any way.
Some might argue: “Well that’s easy for you to say. You’re just a woman parading around as a man part-time for fun. How can you understand the pressure of living up to patriarchal standards?”
And maybe they’d be right. But if there is something I want to see more of in the world, why shouldn’t I do my part to embody it myself?
I have friends who vape, so during breaks between classes I tend to hang out with them in the smoking area. And as left out as I feel, I will not be smoking just to fit in. But that doesn't stop me from feeling left out. So, me being me (as in, willing to do weird shit and already known as an eccentric), I've decided to take it upon myself to pack a little kit of stuff to do instead.
Toothpicks
A few posts ago, I talked about having Pavloved myself into being able to study when I chew on toothpicks. I'm pretty sure it's because I started doing it to not feel left out at TAFE when people smoked, and then I just kept doing it into the next class so now I link the chewing with being in class. Anyway, I think it looks kind of cool (maybe a little cringe but IDC), and it gives my mouth something to do.
Bubbles
The original idea was to get one of those cigarette bubble blowers, but those are expensive and I like free stuff, so I have a regular bubble wand I totally didn't steal from my Mum's workplace. I don't know what to say about these other than that I love bubbles and it makes me feel included. Other people love them too BTW, it's so fun to watch grown adults get excited over something I did.
Potion bottle
AKA a tiny bottle of ginger juice that I sip on for the taste. I'm a strong flavours kind of guy, so it's good stimulation for me, and I put it in a fancy little bottle because I'm extra. I don't have a juicer, though, so I have to buy the juice (I get it almost a litre at a time here), and it's quite expensive so it's something that I'll drink 30ml of at a time until it runs out, then I won't buy it until I feel like doing it again.
Snacks
This is the obvious one. I won't always snack, since I only have 1-2 breaks per day and one's for lunch. But when I do, it's a very Pinterest inspired little tin full of walnuts/pecans, chocolate, and/or stuffed dates. My favourite stuffed date variation is soy protein crisps + almond butter + chocolate chips, by the way. The crispiness really helps sell that I'm eating actual food and not just mush.
Spices
For sniffing purposes. Top hits include a cinnamon stick, cloves, or a bay leaf (technically a herb but you get it). Sometimes I will replace this with a flower I found on my commute, usually a frangipani since so many people on my street have them, but since it's getting colder those are going to get less and less common. But my plague doctor ass sachet of spices will save me from secondhand smoke, trust me.
Cosmetics
Nothing like casual hand cream usage to make you feel fancy. Sometimes I'll just touch up my perfume, other times I use lip balm or whatever, in emergencies (like if someone is already staring at me for how I dress or for blowing bubbles) I'll reapply my eyeliner. My sibling called me 'the performative male final boss', and I consider that a compliment because life is in fact a performance and I'm winning.
There’s a kind of fight I’ve been in for years. Quiet. Constant. Largely invisible to the world.
Some of that fight has been about desire. What I want. Why I want it. And where those wants even come from.
For a long time, I lived inside a marriage that left me small. My sexuality, my softness, even my sense of worth, became part of how I degraded myself. Not because I wanted to, but because I had absorbed the belief that pain was what I deserved. I used those parts of me against myself and called it control, because admitting how lost I was felt worse than clinging to punishment.
I built a life of compromises because I had convinced myself that’s what I deserved. I let outside voices chip away at me until I couldn’t tell where their judgment ended and my self-worth began. And when I finally started naming what I wanted—gentleness, beauty, care—I didn’t trust any of it.
I thought maybe those wants were just scars reshaped into cravings. Some were. I fought them hard. Because some of them weren’t born from joy or freedom, they were built in the face of survival and shaped by harm. Some may stick with me forever, etched too deeply into my psyche to fully shed.
But instead of rejecting them outright, I’m learning to see them clearly. To ask whether they’re still hurting me, or whether I can reclaim them as part of something healthier, something mine. I don’t need to throw everything away. I need to know what still belongs. Over the last six months, I’ve been quietly testing that through the smallest of things. In doing so, I’ve begun to feel something shifting. Not abruptly. But undeniably.
Not all at once. Not loudly. But in those small choices, I’ve started to see just how deep the conflict runs—and how much I still long for softness in a world that has always rewarded hardness.
This story isn’t a confession or a revelation, it’s a slow, deliberate reclamation, not from others, but within myself.
The earbuds came first. And they shouldn’t have mattered.
But they did.
Because by the time I sat staring at that Amazon page, something inside me was already unraveling. Years of self-denial, masked desire, and learned restraint were beginning to loosen their hold. I wasn’t just choosing a color. I was confronting a wall I’d built brick by brick over the years. The typical choices were black and white. And the safe choice, the one I would’ve made without thinking, was black. There was a third option. A light blue. Not quite sky blue, but soft, subtle, and shiny. The color I was drawn to felt honest in a way I couldn’t explain.
The anxiety wasn’t rational. It crept in as hesitation, shallow breath, the urge to click black and move on. Safe. Invisible. Normal.
I asked myself questions I didn’t want to answer. Is this too much? Am I trying to be something I’m not? Will people see this and assume something about me, I’m not ready to face myself? Will they be right? And underneath all that, one question lingered. Am I allowed to want this?
The hardest part wasn’t choosing the light blue. It was daring to believe I could choose at all.
Next were my nails.
Matte Ash lavender. Not bold. Not flashy. A quiet shift on the surface, but a quiet storm within.
The truth is, I never had the desire to paint my nails until long after I had become deeply entrenched in a cycle of self-erasure. That desire didn’t grow from freedom or playfulness. It was seeded in humiliation. In the media I consumed when I was at my lowest, the fantasies were meant to emasculate and degrade. I internalized it. I made it part of how I endured inside a broken life. I told myself I liked it because it hurt. Because I deserved it.
Was I reclaiming something, or was I just repeating harm? Was this self-expression or another echo of self-erasure? I fought with them in silence, circling around shame and survival and something that looked like want. But when the polish dried, those questions didn’t matter the same way. They had already done their work.
And now, I don’t ask them anymore.
Only one person has asked me about them. A friend in his late seventies. I told him I painted them to go to Pride, and because I envied the ease with which others seemed to move in their own expression. He just nodded and said, “Cool.” That was it. And somehow, it meant everything. He asked if I did them myself or had them done. I said I paid someone. That was the end of it.
But I still find myself waiting. Waiting for someone to make a big deal. Waiting for the judgment I’ve trained myself to expect. And at the same time, I’m amazed I didn’t back out. I found a thread of confidence in myself and followed it. That I didn’t make a public declaration or post a picture:I didn’t tell anyone the day I did it. Because it wasn’t for them; it was for me.
What helped most came before. A friend reminded me of the Dao. She called me Pooh in the gentlest, most grounding way, referencing The Tao of Pooh. Maybe, she said, I didn’t need to fight every question. Perhaps I could just be.
So I’m trying.
Trying to let the struggle quiet itself. Trying to live what feels right.
But I have kept them painted. Because it was the first time I felt a hint of choice inside a story I used to believe had already been written for me.
That feeling has quieted. As I settle into the Dao, I’ve stopped questioning the desire. I have it. It doesn’t cause harm. And more often than not, it feels good. Some days, there’s still a hum of doubt in the background. But mostly, I’m just living it now.
Then came the wallet.
By then, the quiet had settled into my bones. Just last night, I bought a burgundy leather wallet. It hasn’t even arrived yet, and still, I know exactly why I chose it.
For the last week, I had been researching wallets—scrolling past minimalist designs made of plastic, webbing, and metal. Cold. Hard. EDC-style things that looked tactical and sharp. Wallets made to feel rugged, impersonal, even aggressive. And I couldn’t picture enjoying a single one of them.
Then I stumbled on leather wallets made in Arizona by Lost Dutchman Leather. Suddenly, something shifted. These weren’t soft in a traditionally feminine way, but they carried a warmth that still felt grounded. I could already picture the feel of it. Supple leather, molded over time by the shape of my body and touched by the patina of daily use. I could smell it. Its warmth lived in my imagination. And I hadn’t even received it yet.
It settled over me like breath returning. The world isn’t black and white. And neither are my desires. I don’t have to categorize every choice as hard or soft, feminine or masculine, safe or deviant.
The wallet reminded me of that.
It brought relief. Because I’m learning a new language. Back then, my mind felt knotted, tangled in binaries of feminine or masculine, soft or hard. I didn’t know there was another way to be. But with time, I’m beginning to understand that I can be soft and still be me. That not every choice is about pushing the envelope. The wallet is an excellent example of that. It wasn’t about making a statement. It was about choosing what felt right for me.
These three small things… they’re not small at all, not to me.
What parts of me have I buried to be acceptable? How much of my past was performance? What do I actually want—and why was I so afraid of wanting it?
I used to define myself by opposites. Feminine or masculine. Soft or hard. Never both. The Dao has taught me better. That duality isn’t the only language. That the world moves in harmony, not opposition. That I can be soft and still carry strength. What feels right doesn’t have to be justified. It only has to be lived.
I used to look at people who moved freely in their expression and feel a pulse of envy. Not because I wanted to copy them, but because I wanted to feel that free in my own skin. I still feel that sometimes. But I also know I’m closer now than I’ve ever been.
What I do know is that each of these small choices helped me breathe a little easier, even through the anxiety and self-doubt. They didn’t silence the internal war, but they reminded me that I can choose. I don’t have to keep carrying everything I once believed made me strong.
Softness isn’t the opposite of strength. It’s the strength I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
These three small things are the start of something bigger. Not a transformation, but a return. A remembering. A reclamation of the parts of me I thought I had to leave behind.
And the fight to get here is the proof that it matters.
I don’t have to push. I don’t have to arrive. The Dao isn’t about conquering or defining. It’s about letting go of the struggle to control what already wants to flow.
And I’m starting to believe I can move through the world in a way that feels open, steady, and real. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But that’s the way of it, isn’t it?
Recently, I've gotten into the korean boy band known as BTS. I know, I'm extremely late to the party. Regardless, I have only been an army for a couple of months but I can truly say that BTS has changed my life. More specifically, BTS has made me so much more comfortable in my gender identity.
Hey, I'm a transgender man, and I am no stranger to gender dysphoria and the pressures that come with trying to conform to gender roles in order to pass. I have been through the hyper-feminine phase and the hyper-masculine one. Even though the hyper-masc phase felt better than the former, it still wasn't me. I didn't like being this nonchalant tough guy. That's the exact opposite of who I am. I was making myself miserable. The consequence of trying to overcorrect and ending up in the same position I was when I started. I still wasn't being my true self.
And then I got into BTS.
BTS is not your regular boy band. They're so, so, so much more.
BTS' version of masculinity is nothing like what we have in the west. I assume this is why so many dudes trash on BTS, the tannies are everything that they hate.
BTS wears makeup. BTS sings and dances. Their songs aren't just the standard hookup sex song- they sing about self love, yearning, mental health, growing up...
BTS wears whatever they want. Even if the clothing is considered feminine.
BTS cry. They express themselves. None of that suppression bullshit. They outwardly show affection to one another and aren't afraid to love. They love SO much.
I often see their masculinity described as "gentle" and I could not agree more.
BTS are kind, caring, vulnerable, and so emotionally intelligent.
Some people think these are weak traits, but BTS have shown me that these "feminine" traits actually enhance not only your masculinity- but your entire being.
That is why they are so loved. They are gentle, loving, caring, sweet, and selfless. Which makes them seem confident, charismatic, strong, and protective.
BTS is everything a man should be.
The man that I want to be.
BTS taught me that it's okay. It's okay to just be yourself. You're not less of a man if you do partake in activities considered "feminine."
Seeing them express themselves however they want, even if it's not considered masculine, and still be loved and adored for it was life changing.
And like I said, these qualities actually elevate you as a person! You become someone everyone wants to be around. A beacon of hope, someone's sunshine, a symbol of happiness.
I not only want to be a gentleman, but I also just want to be a good person.
I can be a good man as well as a good person. And this post is probably silly, but I think it's cool that BTS inspires so many people. Inspired me.
I think more guys should get into BTS. I truly think they should be every man's role model.
I would love to hear from other army fanboys and from those armys who are also transgender!
The Feels is a show about a bi guy with way too many emotions. In "Power," Charlie gets pulled into an unexpected late night situation, and, um, I think...
