Hi, I’m Andrew. Originally a Midwest native, I’m currently living my best life in SoCal, exploring the beauty of the world around me through poetry, prose, photography, and the eyes of others. When I’m not hanging out with the people I love, I can usually be found buying things I don’t need or gazing pensively out the nearest window. I hope my words can encourage you, wherever you are in your journey toward wholeness.
Picture this: a young, skinny, pale, little boy, dressed in baggy, light wash jeans and an oversized graphic t-shirt. This was the dress code of the 90s and early 2000s, and it was great for me as a kid: lots of fabric for comfort, as well as protection from scrapes and bruises, with the ability to hide much of my gangly awkwardness common to pre-pubescent boys.
I blissfully enjoyed my childhood with these fashion trends, unaware of what was to come. Skinny jeans took the world by force in the early 2000s, which was also unfortunately around when I hit puberty and became increasingly aware of my changing body and sexuality.
As the other boys grew taller and more muscular, I felt increasingly out of place with my (still) scrawny body and baggy garage-sale clothes. My glasses and really bad acne didn’t help matters.
The clothes of the time that I thought looked cool — skinny jeans and deep v-necks — were branded as “gay” by my parents and people at church. Even if my family could have afforded such trendy clothes, my deep fear of being outed as queer prevented me ever from asking for them.
Unsure of what to do, I retreated, leaning into my quiet, nerdy persona, pretending to be content with the clothes I still wore. I became a stranger in my own body. Every time I saw a man on a magazine or the street, I saw someone I’d never be: masculine, muscular, attractive, and confident.
I hid more than just my body within my baggy clothes. I felt trapped beneath layers of denim and cotton.
It wasn’t until my first job out of high school that the first glimmer of light appeared. I worked retail at a discount clothing store, suddenly surrounded by people and clothing of all types. Timid, quiet, homeschooled me started pressing out of my shell as I saw a chance for change.
I bought my first piece of clothing at that discount shop: a light aqua t-shirt with a (slight) v-neck. Exposing my collar bones for the first time in a bright, bold (to me) color was scary, but I liked how it looked. I even got a few compliments, which reinforced that I was doing the right thing. Little by little, I continued experimenting with color by buying a few solid-tone button-ups — ones that were red, spring green, and sky blue.
My new clothing choices helped me see a glimpse of who I was on the outside, even if I still couldn’t hold my own gaze in a mirror.
Things picked up speed in college. My sexuality became an internal battleground as it also became an external one on my college campus. I struggled academically, spiritually, and socially while juggling everything being thrown at me like countless pairs of ugly shoes.
Perhaps out of desperation for some type of control, I impulsively bought a white Phil Wickham slim-fit v-neck that made me feel very gay. I wore it nervously on days that I felt okay with my sexuality and banished it to the back of my closet on days that I didn’t.
But every now and then, we both slipped out of the closet for a blissful day or two.
I ended up barely surviving college, but both my Phil Wickham shirt and I fully came out of the closet by the end — maybe not loudly, or paraded around, but quietly and firmly there.
Like refining fire, my college experience had done its work, burning away the layers of my cultural upbringing to the parts which mattered most. Only the essential truth remained: that Christ was the solid rock under my hands and knees amid the hurricane.
But after sweeping away the ashes of who I was, I discovered new questions: What did I want to build upon the foundation that remained? Who did I want to become?
My first professional job brought a host of freedoms: my own home away from my parents, a friend who inspired enormous amounts of change and growth, and actual paychecks to spend however I wanted. That Phil Wickham t-shirt had given me newfound boldness, and I found myself on a mission.
It wasn’t uncommon for me to go into a store and try on dozens of clothes, exploring everything that men’s fashion had to offer. I pushed the envelope on what I liked and felt comfortable with.
I finally bought my first pair of skinny jeans, and yes, I felt incredible.
Looking at myself in the dressing room mirror over and over was like exposure therapy. I became familiar with my body, finding out which colors complimented my skin tone and made me less washed out, which styles and fits smoothed out my short torso and skinny frame rather than accentuated them, and which patterns made me feel fun and joyful instead of showy and self-conscious.
I began to work with my body, viewing it as a creative expression instead of something fixed in stone. Gradually, and with the help of a few changes — getting rid of my glasses, altering my diet to eliminate my acne, and experimenting with haircuts — I began to like the way I looked. I still wasn’t happy with the shape and skinny-ness of my body, but I knew how to make it inoffensive.
My closet, my former place of hiding among the dark and heavy fabrics, now saw the light of day — a rainbow of colors fully reflecting who I was rather than who I was supposed to be.
Slowly, like someone learning to live with the quirks of a new apartment, I began to embrace the flaws. Perfection would never be an option, so why live my life in the shadows of self-hatred? After all, God called the person I was beautiful and beloved; shouldn’t I learn to love that person, too?
I could love the imperfections in other people, after all. Shouldn’t I learn to love my own imperfections the same way?
I began to take other people’s words at face value, treating myself with kindness and grace. And that is the journey where I am today: learning to see myself through the eyes of God and other people.
It’s a long road, and hopefully one day I will finally banish my insecurities and self-doubt for good. But I’ve come such a long way from those early years of hiding in my own clothes. Fashion has played a pivotal role in finding myself.
I still have work to do, but I know that my style will continue to change along with me, letting me work out my inner struggles through fashion.
How has fashion influenced your journey toward self-acceptance and self-expression? Where have you become both more bold and more comfortable in the clothing you wear? Where do you remain insecure?
About the Author
Andrew, I don’t know that I’ve seen the literal and figuratively closets so beautifully intertwined in a post.
Honestly, I’m not great with fashion. I tend to wear similar things for years. But this kind of gives me some more room to think, as I’ve struggled with feeling too thin (and hence unmasculine).