I’ve never loved labels. Not because they’re useless, but because they can flatten a person in seconds. Musician. Designer. Strategist. Artist. All true. None of them the whole picture.
Underneath all of that, I’ve always had the feeling of being slightly out of step. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice. Before I had language, I had that feeling.
At school, I was called “gay boy” before I’d really worked it out for myself. I wasn’t doing anything. Just existing in a way that didn’t quite fit the room. It made me self-conscious in ways I couldn’t explain yet. I learned quickly that whatever this was, it wasn’t something to show.
No one in my family talked about being gay. I didn’t have a reference point for what it might mean to say it out loud. So I didn’t. I folded it inward. Carried a kind of quiet shame I didn’t choose, but absorbed.
I still find it strange that queer people are expected to “come out,” as if our existence needs a formal announcement. Most people just get to be.
Long before I spoke about any of this, I was making things. Songs. Music. Sounds that felt like somewhere to put the feelings I didn’t have language for yet. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing at the time. I just knew that when I was making something, I could be more honest than I knew how to be in conversation. Sensitive. Intense. Romantic. A bit too much for some rooms. Exactly right in that one. Music became a place where nothing about me needed explaining.
Lately, I’ve also been looking at other threads. The way I notice everything. The way noise can overwhelm me but beauty can undo me just as easily. The intensity. The focus. The need for both structure and freedom. I’ve never been formally assessed, but I’ve wondered about neurodiversity. Some pieces of myself make more sense when I look through that lens. Not as a label to cling to. Just as context.
Being gay isn’t the loudest thing about me. But I know it’s there, woven through everything. In the way I care about people feeling seen. In the softness I value. In the pull towards emotional clarity. In the refuge I find in beauty and art and stillness. It’s a quiet root. You don’t always see the roots of something. But they’re often the reason it stands at all.
You don’t have to lead with every part of yourself. But you don’t have to pretend they’re not there either. The things that shape us don’t always take centre stage. Sometimes they’re just present in the room, influencing everything without asking for attention.
There are things I wish I could say to the version of me who was younger and carrying all of this without words. Maybe this is for him. Maybe it’s for someone else, too.
Dear you,
I know you feel different, even if you can’t explain how.
You’re right. You are. But not in the way you fear.
Nothing about you is a mistake.
The sensitivity. The softness. The intensity. The way you feel things all the way through. One day, those will be the exact tools you use to make sense of the world... for yourself, and for other people.
You don’t have to solve yourself right now.
You’re not behind. You’re not wrong.
You’re just early in the story.
Love,
You.. later.
...
I’ve never been one for labels.
Not because I don’t believe in them — but because I don’t like how quickly they reduce people.
I’m a musician. A designer. A brand strategist. A creative director. A human. I’m someone who’s always been interested in how we see ourselves — and how we’re seen. But underneath all that, I’ve also always been someone who felt… different.
Before I had the words for it, I had the feeling of it.
A quiet knowing
At school, I got called “gay boy” before I really knew for myself. I wasn’t even doing anything in particular — just being. It made me question who I was. Made me self-conscious in ways I couldn’t explain. And though no one said it outright, I understood very quickly that it wasn’t something to share.
There weren’t any other openly gay people in my family, or in my wider circle. I didn’t know what it would mean to say it out loud. So I didn’t. I kept it in. I pushed it aside. And without realising it, I carried shame — not because I chose it, but because it was handed to me, gently but pervasively, by a world that didn’t know what to do with difference.
I still hate the idea that queer people are expected to “come out” — as if our love or identity is something we have to announce or justify.
Straight people don’t have to do that.
We’re all just human at the end of the day.
Expression came first
Long before I ever spoke about it, I was making things.
Songs. Music. Art.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was creating a place where I could be honest.
A place where I could say the things I wasn’t sure how to say.
A place where being sensitive, soft, intense, intuitive — wasn’t “too much,” it was the whole point.
My music has always felt closely tied to this part of me. It’s where I go to make sense of the world. Where I process my thoughts. Where I get to be raw and romantic and real — sometimes before I even understand what I’m feeling.
And lately, I’ve come to realise:
This thread — of feeling different — might not just come from being gay.
I’ve never been formally assessed, but I’ve often wondered if I’m neurodiverse. The more I learn, the more certain parts of myself start to make sense.
The way I notice everything.
The intensity.
The struggle with overstimulation — and the sensitivity to beauty.
It’s all shaped the way I move through the world.
The invisible thread
Being gay isn’t the only thing about me.
It’s not even the loudest thing.
But I know it’s there — in the way I write, the way I design, the way I feel.
It’s the reason I care about helping people feel seen.
It’s the reason I’m so focused on emotional clarity, on truth, on softness as strength.
It’s the root of my romanticism — and probably the reason I find refuge in things like music, art, stillness, and beauty.
So no, I don’t talk about it all the time.
But it’s there. In the room.
A quiet root — holding more than you’d expect.
You don’t have to lead with every part of yourself.
But you don’t have to hide it either.
The things that shape us don’t have to be centre stage to be present.
Sometimes, they’re the very reason the rest of it exists.
And if someone’s reading this who feels like they’re carrying something in silence — unsure, unseen, or afraid to be fully themselves — I want to leave you with this.
It’s a letter I wish I could’ve read when I was younger.
Maybe it’s for you, too.
A letter to the boy I used to be
Dear you,
I know you’re scared. I know you feel different, even if you can’t explain why.
You’re not imagining it. You are different. But that’s not a flaw — it’s your magic.
You don’t need to get louder to be heard.
You don’t need to be anyone else to be enough.
And you don’t need to rush to figure it all out — it will unfold when it’s ready.
I know it feels heavy right now. Like you’re carrying something you can’t name.
But one day, the very thing that makes you feel separate will become the thread that helps you connect with others more deeply than you ever thought possible.
You’ll find beauty. You’ll find your voice. You’ll create things that hold you — and others — through hard things.
You’ll turn this quiet ache into something breathtaking.
So keep going. Keep being gentle. Keep listening to yourself.
You’re not broken. You’re becoming.
Love,
Me (you, but later, and braver) x