Three years ago my style was relatively straight forward. I was a powerlifter, living in sunny Australia and I identified as a bisexual woman. I didn’t put a lot of thought into my fashion - I’d usually wear some variation of “tight top, loose pants” at work and outside of that I’d live in my activewear. Yeah, I was that girl. At the time I was very dedicated to my training, about five years into my powerlifting ‘career’ and the strongest I’d been. Powerlifting was pretty central to my identity, and so my style really exemplified that. There was a thought, partly conscious, partly not, that I wanted to look like a lifter. I wanted to look strong. I wanted to show off my toned legs and defined arms. And, underpinning it all, I didn’t want anyone to mistake my muscles for being “big”.

I hated wearing t-shirts, thinking they’d “hide my gains” and looking back I clearly had an overwhelming dysphoria that anyone could even think I was big in the first place. I was a size 8-10, super fit, but was still viewing myself through the harshest, most critical eyes. Eyes had been with me my entire life. I thought, mistakenly, that by focusing on strength over aesthetics, as powerlifting does (versus say, bodybuilding), that I had cured my relationship with food, that I was finally free from that mindset that had plagued me ever since I was fourteen and going on crash-carb-free diets.

However, it wasn’t until years later, when I started to reevaluate my relationship with gender that I felt this internalised fatphobia rear its ugly head. Kind of like a dragon in slumber or a dormant volcano, momentarily subdued but devastatingly dangerous at any given time.

And it all started with coming out.

I first came out in 2020 as a lesbian and a year after that I “came out” as non-binary. Or rather, I started playing around with the pronouns in my bio, because that’s how it was for me.

Coming out as gay was gradual but a fairly loud thing - I told everyone in arms distance about my incredible [then-long distance] girlfriend, I wore bright rainbow socks, button-up ‘party shirts’ and you could find me in a beanie at any time, even at the gym in 35+ degree weather because #gay. I was THAT baby-gay, after 27 years I finally knew who I was and needed everyone around me to know, too.

On the flip side, coming out as non-binary was a much more subtle, slow and arduous process. Over the course of 6 months I changed my bio from ‘she/her’ to ‘she/they’, to ‘they/she’ and finally, to ‘they/them’. Interesting how subtle these changes are - a few letters in a social media profile - compared to how huge the changes felt inside of me. You know how people say they have two wolves inside them, fighting each other? Well, my wolves weren’t fighting each other, they were fighting me.

Before I knew it, I was deep in this process of what felt like everyday learning, and unlearning. For instance, I learned that binary gender was a construct, something that was spread across the globe as the world was colonised. I learned many Indigenous cultures, from the First Nations people of Australia, the Māori of Aotearoa (New Zealand) and Native American people had a much more free-flowing understanding of gender. I started to wonder, as a Papua New Guinean person, what this could mean for me?

While there wasn’t any specific documentation that I’d found about pre-colonialist Papua New Guinean culture, I felt empowered by other Indigenous and people of colour that had rejected the gender binary, along with other Western beauty standards that I was defined by my entire life. So bit by bit, I started to actively rebel against and unlearn this colonialist view of gender, eventually landing on the label ‘gender non-conforming’. Even now, over two years on, I like that terminology the best, because after three decades of masking, morphing, assimilating - I relish in the concept of not conforming.

As my understanding and relationship with gender evolved, my style evolved with me.

I began gravitating towards looser clothing. I swapped my millennial skinny jeans for baggy mom-jeans and layered on baggy t-shirts. I found Lucy & Yak, and immediately HAD to purchase (and live in) the Rainbow Dungarees - making it my personality trait for an entire season. My makeup also changed drastically, and I started to play with a tonne of colour - buying neon eyeshadow palettes with names like Orange Soda and Frosted Lime and creating new, bold looks almost daily.

I cut off my hair, my 11 year old black and red locs, and embraced my natural curly hair - a BIG ‘homecoming’ moment for me. Another act of rebellion. With each change, each experiment, I felt like I was unlearning the male gaze. After 27 years of conforming to heteronormative beauty standards I finally felt unapologetically queer. And mostly importantly - unapologetically ME.

I had a good 6 months feeling like my insides matched my outsides… until something started to shift.

I had begun using ‘they/them’ pronouns exclusively, and with that came a certain rigidness. This caused me to be misgendered on almost a daily basis.

At the time I had started a new role as Managing Director at a digital agency, and I spent hours everyday either talking to existing clients or pitching for new ones. Each zoom meeting presented a new, unique opportunity for me to be misgendered. I found myself in an impossible situation.

Do I 1) correct them and open up an entire conversation about my gender which, as a gender-non-conforming person the whole point is ‘fuck gender’? Or, 2) I let them she/her me the entire time, each one feeling like a small stab at my side. I went with the latter, death by a thousand cuts.

With the stress of the role taking up my entire being and brain space - I found myself falling out of training completely and falling back into poor eating habits. As I gained weight, that aforementioned dragon/volcano situation [my internalised fatphobia] really came out to play. The clothes I previously found solace and comfort in started to fit differently and I hated that for a couple reasons:

1. I saw my new curves as “womanly” features, which was at odds with how I felt on the inside.
2. The words of family members, dance teachers, colleagues and celebrities screamed at me that gaining weight = BAD.

Every representation I had seen of non-binary people was thin, androgynous and (mostly) white. I started to feel like I wasn’t being “non-binary enough”. Eventually, my clothes began to feel like a trap rather than a playful, fun experiment. Getting changed everyday, like my daily misgenderings, was a painful process, and I began to hide myself away under baggy tracksuits and hoodies. Defaulting to ‘dog walking clothes’ without much effort or intention. And, as my work took over my life, I completely lost my sense of style and self…

This went on for far too long, until my wife finally pulled me out of it. She reminded me of what truly mattered, and made me realise how so many aspects of my life, romantic, social, self expression, self worth, health and nutrition were coming second - or being neglected completely - because of my job. Fighting against all of society's expectations of success, and without a backup plan, I quit.

It’s been a year since I quit my toxic career and the subsequent healing has been profound. While I haven’t figured it all out, my relationship to gender, my body and my style has come a long way.

I am no longer as rigid with my pronouns and instead like to operate from a place of ‘holding it lightly’. That is: understanding that the multitudes and fullness of my being cannot be captured by the English language, let alone in pronouns. If someone I don’t know sees me and thinks “woman” or calls me she/her - that’s OK. I’m no longer giving other people the power over my personhood. [I recognise the great privilege I have that being misgendered as a non-binary AFAB person won’t often result in inner/external violence, unlike many of my GNC and trans siblings].

This flexibility and fluidity around my gender identity has opened up my world again when it comes to my presentation, and how I perceive my body. I’ve started to ‘de-gender’ curves in my consciousness, not seeing curves as feminine and a lack of curves as androgyny or masculinity. I’m constantly inspired by Black butch women and lesbians - some fat, some muscular, some skinny - all completely badass and immensely powerful.

And finally, as part of my healing journey, I’m re-prioritising self expression. Whether it’s going through a guy-liner phase and luxe streetwear fits, discovering a love for waistcoats with Steve Madden sneakers or rocking the brightest boldest party shirt I can find at the thrift shop with neon green, alien earrings. I seamlessly weave in traditionally masculine and feminine clothes, deciding day by day how I feel, and how I want to present. My style feels like a playground again. My fashion is finally beyond the binary.

Paff (they/them) is a Black, queer & neurodivergent creator, speaker and activist. A natural storyteller, Paff went viral on TikTok during lockdown, building an audience of over 110K people by empowering them to take up more space. Alongside their wife Han (@iamhanpeacock), Paff created Take Up Space (@takeupspacehq), a community and media company for change-makers.