My clothes are loud, vibrant and beautiful. For years, I’ve spent my savings on stunning dresses, carefully curating what you’d call “a lewk”. They are bright, gorgeous frocks that all say the same thing: that I matter, and I deserve to take up space, and you can see me. Here I am!
I was not always so bold. As a fat queer person, this is quite an act of civil disobedience. I took a stand by refusing to collect flattering garments – slimming, invisible, acceptable pieces. No way. I went hard: stockings in every colour, headpieces, handbags, gloves and belts. The pickings in vintage circles are surprisingly slim for bodies like mine. (Where were all my Rubenesque forebears?) I found what I could, doggedly rifling through the entire internet and every op shop. I drew on a wisdom from the dawn of time: you cannot ignore me because I have accessorised.
I was not always so bold. As a fat queer person, this is quite an act of civil disobedience.
But one Saturday recently, something happened on the way from my wardrobe to the shower. I caught sight of all of my clothes and my stomach sank.
Suddenly I felt sick, and sad, and worried. It felt like grief.
You see, a short while ago, I realised with blinding clarity that my gender doesn’t fit snugly in the binary like I had assumed. Triumphant and feeling blissfully real in my skin, I was thoroughly enjoying the new stillness in my nervous system — an ease that felt like coming home and flopping on the couch, closing the door to confusion — until that Saturday morning, when the line-up of colourful frocks caught my eye.
Should I throw my past sartorial life away? I wondered. Would I regret clearing the decks immediately and selling the lot for the price of a beautiful tailored suit and some cute jumpers? Anyone can wear dresses, regardless of gender or identity or age. This is something I try to instil in my children and would love to see more on the big and small screen. But the frocks I’ve painstakingly collected just didn’t feel like me anymore.
To define myself as a woman now doesn’t feel right, and I definitely don’t feel like a man.
To define myself as a woman now doesn’t feel right, and I definitely don’t feel like a man. I have taken a little jump to the left, I suppose, to the land of non-binary where my pronouns are they/them and things feel less loaded, at least to me.
My clothes mean so much more than my personal style. For the past 14 years, I’ve been working as a marriage celebrant. It’s part of the role to be visible, to grab attention and put people at ease - all the while creating a space buzzing with so much support, excitement and positivity that it can galvanise a marriage. The wedding ceremony works best when I feel confident and look professional. So what I wear matters. It’s a mark of respect.
When clients ask me how the ceremony comes together, how it all works, I often liken the process to tailoring a piece of handmade clothing. My initial script will have a lot of seam allowance, and I work with each couple to adjust the fit, the feeling and shave away any extra words - until we get to a place where they feel more comfortable and confident than they could ever imagine. That’s how they would exchange their vows. The best clothes make us feel like our truest self. And a good ceremony can do that, too.
These parallels aren’t lost on me as I view the result of years of collecting, deciding, feeling textures and taking risks to make sure I felt safe and right and authentic. That I can love myself for all that I am.
These parallels aren’t lost on me as I view the result of years of collecting, deciding, feeling textures and taking risks to make sure I felt safe and right and authentic. That I can love myself for all that I am.
Why then, in vulnerable moments, do I find myself worried about anyone else’s perception? I have built a community around me of people I feel good around, collecting friends wherever I go. What I’ve been communicating in how I dress is that I see myself, and I can see you too. There is nothing to fear about who we are. Fat, queer, disabled bodies, or bodies of any kind don’t just need to be tolerated, but embraced.
When looking at my clothes and leaning into the discomfort, I recognise that it’s not because of frivolity or vanity. My reckoning isn’t with rows of fabric, but identity. The frocks are reminding me to delve into a more honest place. It’s an invitation to continue emerging, and to do so lovingly.
*Real name is not used
