The best artist at my school was a girl named Kass. She was funny, intelligent, and a great friend. Kass made ripples midway through high school when she cut her hair short and started wearing suits to formal events. 

I could easily see a world in which her peers and even the parents in our community reacted too strongly to Kass’ unorthodox style choices, calling her a lesbian or forcing her to wear a dress. But Kass never seemed to want a label, and to all of her friends, she was just one of us. To this day, I have no idea what her sexuality is. 

It’s often uncomfortable when we encounter someone, whether a sibling, barista, or classmate, who doesn’t fit easily into gender stereotypes. I’ll admit it: My first reaction is to judge. It’s the threat of the unknown — how do I categorize this person whose makeup, body language, or interests lie outside our typical models of masculinity and femininity?

We do ourselves a great disservice when judgment prevents us from forming authentic relationships with people like Kass. 

Had I not run cross country with Kass and worked alongside her in art class, I would have had a much harder time seeing how much we had in common.

Kass — like many of us — was sincerely wrestling with her identity. She needed a way to explore, even through her appearance, who she was as a woman. We shared many moments in which she opened up about her home life and mental health struggles. Her vulnerability was a gift. She was brave enough to ask all of the hard questions out loud, and in turn seemed receptive to the answers. 

To write her off as a mere rebel for her lack of stereotypical “femininity” would have been a grave mistake. Kass wasn’t asking people to affirm an LGBTQ identity. She needed people to take her seriously so she could figure out her femininity. We must do the same for our peers.

Labels are easy. It’s simpler to call the guy with the earrings and dyed hair “bi” and the girl with androgynous style “lesbian” than to form sincere friendships with them and find out who they really are. 

Our teens and twenties are an especially crucial time for figuring ourselves out. It’s not wrong to manifest some of our interior drama through our physical appearance, mannerisms, or interests.  What we don’t need is the additional social pressure of conforming perfectly to gender stereotypes, lest we face ostracization and slander. Have some mercy. 

After all, gender norms are just that: norms. Men and women are called to be virtuous, truthful, and treat their bodies and souls with deep respect. Beyond that, so much is arbitrary. 

Gender norms aren’t a bad thing: they serve as guideposts as we grow into our masculinity or femininity. At their best, they’re funny, formative, and helpful. But we betray a terrible anxiety about the truth of our own convictions when we obsess over whether our peers or we ourselves conform perfectly, as if salvation rested upon it. 

The healthy models of masculinity and femininity we gain through friendships help us live up to our potential. 

Thanks in part to the quality of her friendships, Kass became visibly more comfortable with her femininity later in high school. She grew out her hair and wore the occasional dress, but more significantly, she seemed happier in her own skin. Best of all, the femininity she embraced wasn’t quite like anyone else’s. She had discovered what so many of us are still learning: There isn’t just one way to be a woman, and the world’s a better place because of it.