#breaking the binary

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.

They’ve surfaced questions I’ve spent decades pushing down.

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.