Why I Make Soft Things
Let’s just get this out of the way: at the time of this essay [October 2025] I’m almost 46 years old, I’m a trans man, and I make cute shit. And I do all of it on purpose. With intention. With devotion. With full knowledge that people will roll their eyes, click away, or mock it as “childish” or “cringe” or “baby stuff.”
But here’s the thing: I’m not making soft things because I’m naïve. I’m making soft things because I know how cruel the world can be. Because I’ve lived through it.
I was bullied for being “too sensitive” my entire life. Not just teased, but targeted. The kid who cried too easily. The one who cared too much about animals, who preferred drawing to gym class, who got overwhelmed in noisy rooms and wanted everything to be gentle and kind and beautiful. I was shamed out of my softness so early and so often that it’s a miracle anything soft survived inside me at all. But it did. It has. And now it’s the most sacred thing I have left.
But here’s the thing: I’m not making soft things because I’m naïve. I’m making soft things because I know how cruel the world can be. Because I’ve lived through it.
I was bullied for being “too sensitive” my entire life. Not just teased, but targeted. The kid who cried too easily. The one who cared too much about animals, who preferred drawing to gym class, who got overwhelmed in noisy rooms and wanted everything to be gentle and kind and beautiful. I was shamed out of my softness so early and so often that it’s a miracle anything soft survived inside me at all. But it did. It has. And now it’s the most sacred thing I have left.
I didn’t know I was trans when I was little—because in the 1980s, no one around me gave me the language to understand it—but I did know I wasn’t like the other girls. I knew I was a boy, but I wasn’t like the boys either, though, at least not in the way they were allowed to be. I was this strange, ethereal creature who cried when other kids stepped on ants, who wrote poems instead of doing math homework, who carried little plastic animals in his pockets for comfort. I lived in my head. I drew and wrote stories constantly. I felt everything. Deeply. Loudly. All the time.
And I got punished for it.
By adults who told me I was “too sensitive" and "need to grow a thicker skin.” By kids who picked on me relentlessly. By teachers who shrugged when I cried or shut down. By a world that had no space for a neurodivergent, soft-hearted little creature trying to survive a brutal environment with only a sketchbook and some fantasy novels for armor.
And when I got older, it didn’t get better. When I was a teenager in the 90s, my mother made fun of my art and threw out my notebooks of stories. Called my passions a waste of time. Told me to toughen up, grow up, stop embarrassing her. So I tried. For a while. I really tried. I tried to be what everyone wanted. Sharper, meaner, quieter. I tried to shut it all down. But it never really worked. And I’m glad it didn’t. Because that softness? That was me. That was the part worth saving.
Coming out as a trans man added a new layer to the whole “you’re not masculine enough” thing. You’d think, maybe, that being around other trans men would offer some kind of relief or solidarity—but that hasn’t been my experience. I want to be honest about that.
In the twelve years since I've come out and been involved in queer spaces both online and in meatspace, I have exactly one transmasc friend. And it’s not for lack of trying.
What I’ve encountered over and over again is a culture of performance—this pressure to be stoic, emotionally closed off, macho. Like you have to constantly prove you’re “man enough,” and G-d forbid you show any softness or vulnerability or love for cute things or pretty things or magical art. That gets you dismissed. Mocked. Treated like you’re not serious, or like you’re embarrassing.
Over and over again, trans men tend to treat me like I’m a liability just for existing the way I do. They look at me like I’m breaking some unspoken code of masculinity just by being visibly tender and not hiding it, and for not turning up my nose at the color pink, or flowers, or lace and glitter. And the truth is—I don’t belong in those spaces. I’ve tried. And I’ve come away feeling more isolated every time.
I’m not saying this to attack anyone. I know trans men are a marginalized group and we’re all surviving the best we can. But I also refuse to lie about my reality. And my reality is that I’ve been treated like an outsider by almost every trans guy I've tried to make friends with.
And so I walk alone. Soft. Emotional. Full of light and grief and tenderness. Not macho. Not stoic. Just me.
And I’m finally okay with that.
For a long time, I thought making soft things was something I had to justify. I had to explain why I liked pastels and plush creatures and flowers and gentle light. I had to “balance it out” with edgy stuff or else people would think I was immature. But at some point—probably somewhere between heartbreak, and getting sober in 2024—I stopped caring what people thought. I started leaning into the magic.
And I realized something: softness is holy.
Creating soft art is a form of prayer. A reclamation. A radical act of resistance in a world that rewards cruelty and detachment. I don’t make pastel moths with flower-blooming gemstone wings because I think the world is sweet—I draw them because I wish it were. Because I need it to be, at least for a moment. Because I want to give others a moment of breath, of comfort, of beauty.
Each glowing landscape I make is a sanctuary for some part of me that didn’t get to rest when I was young. Each gentle-eyed creature is a reminder that innocence isn’t the same as ignorance. That kindness is not a flaw. That beauty and joy are not luxuries—they are lifelines.
The soft things I create are not for mockery. They’re not trivial. They’re not “baby stuff.” They are stitched-together survival magic.
They are sacred.
When I say I make “cute shit,” I don’t mean that dismissively. I say it with pride, with grit, with defiance. Because I’ve been through enough trauma and loss and despair to know just how badly this world needs something gentle.
People treat cuteness like it’s embarrassing. Like it’s unserious. But in a world drowning in violence, oppression, cruelty, cynicism, and dehumanization, what’s more serious than tenderness?
What’s more courageous than being openly soft when everything in our culture tries to beat that softness out of us?
I’ve been suicidal. I’ve been broken down by grief and bigotry and loneliness. I’ve had people I trusted hurt me in ways that still echo years later.
I’ve seen what happens when people lose touch with their own humanity. And I’ve also seen how one small act of softness—one gentle word, one adorable image, one fluffy kitten napping contentedly or one fuzzy moth glowing on a branch—can crack through the numbness like sunlight.
I make cute shit because it matters.
Because someone else out there might be trying to survive tonight. And they deserve a place to rest. Even if it’s just a glowing garden with soft lanterns and happy little squirrels.
When I say I make “cute shit,” I don’t mean that dismissively. I say it with pride, with grit, with defiance. Because I’ve been through enough trauma and loss and despair to know just how badly this world needs something gentle.
People treat cuteness like it’s embarrassing. Like it’s unserious. But in a world drowning in violence, oppression, cruelty, cynicism, and dehumanization, what’s more serious than tenderness?
What’s more courageous than being openly soft when everything in our culture tries to beat that softness out of us?
I’ve been suicidal. I’ve been broken down by grief and bigotry and loneliness. I’ve had people I trusted hurt me in ways that still echo years later.
I’ve seen what happens when people lose touch with their own humanity. And I’ve also seen how one small act of softness—one gentle word, one adorable image, one fluffy kitten napping contentedly or one fuzzy moth glowing on a branch—can crack through the numbness like sunlight.
I make cute shit because it matters.
Because someone else out there might be trying to survive tonight. And they deserve a place to rest. Even if it’s just a glowing garden with soft lanterns and happy little squirrels.
Here’s the part I don’t talk about often: it gets lonely.
I’ve spent years being told I was “too much” or “too emotional” or “too weird.” I’ve had trans guys treat me like I’m fragile or embarrassing. I’ve had friends drop off because they couldn’t handle how openly I talk about feelings. And still—I refuse to go numb. I refuse to get harder. I refuse to kill off the most sacred part of me just to belong.
Being this soft in a world that sees softness as weakness means I’m often the odd one out.
And that even circles back to my art: sometimes I post something that makes me really proud—a piece that’s delicate, lovingly detailed, spiritually charged—and it barely gets noticed. But I post something edgier, darker, more traditionally “cool,” and suddenly people pay attention. That stings.
There’s a part of me that still aches to be understood. That still wants to be seen, not just tolerated. And the truth is, a lot of people look right past soft things. They think they’re shallow. They think we’re naïve, unserious, juvenile. They don’t realize how much strength it takes to be gentle when you’ve been brutalized.
If that makes me lonely sometimes, so be it. I’d rather be real and soft and a little weird than be liked for a version of me that isn’t true.
After everything—after the bullying, the family trauma, the loss, the transphobia, the loneliness, the rejection, the exhaustion—I’m still here. Still making soft things. Still sharing them. Still dreaming of glowing gardens and spectral cats and mossy stones under moonlight.
And I’m not going to stop.
So call it “baby stuff” if you want. Laugh if you must. But know that every pastel moth I draw is a small act of rebellion. Every glowing bunny is a prayer. Every enchanted flower is a piece of my heart still trying to believe the world can be beautiful.
And I’m not alone.
Not really.
Neither are you.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever been made to feel ashamed of your softness—if someone told you that your art, your feelings, your comfort shows, your baby animals, your glowing worlds, your tenderness, your tears, your too-muchness made you weak—I want you to hear this loud and clear:
They were wrong.
You are not weak. You are not broken. You are not too much.
You are brave.
You are surviving in a world that tries every day to sand down your edges. And you’re still choosing to love. To care. To create beauty. To share joy. That is not childish. That is not cringe. That is heroic.
So make your gentle things. Draw your sparkly wolves. Paint your glowing forests. Sculpt your weird fuzzy creatures with mushroom hats. Write your soft magic. Cry over baby foxes. Send your friends gifs of dancing cats in flower crowns. Lean into your softness like it’s the most badass thing you’ve got—because it is.
