I never wanted the job, and I certainly didn’t sign up to wake up in a body that moved with different curves and a different grammar of skin. One morning I’m arguing with a reality that stole my clothes and walked away with my life; the next I’m flipping the camera on in a tiny studio I don’t recognise and telling a straight line about consent, boundaries and breathwork like I’ve always been an expert. My face — my voice, somehow — stays familiar, but everything else reads as someone else’s invitation. I try to be clinical, to keep the lesson clear, but my hands learn a new language when demonstrating posture and pelvic floor engagement, and the audience can feel the small, intimate shiver of awkwardness under the teaching.

The video was meant to be educational. Instead one clipped moment — me slipping into the therapist’s heels for a posture demo, laughing at how foreign it feels — becomes the headline: “A man in her shoes.” Comments flood in, half curious, half flirty; the clip goes viral because people say I look both serious and deliciously out of place. I ride the weird fame like a wave I didn’t call: reassuring clients, answering sensible questions, and letting the camera catch the tiny, sensual honesty of someone learning to be both professional and human in a body that wasn’t theirs to begin with. I’m still trying to get my life back, but for now I teach, I blush, and — when the lights are off — I practice walking in those heels until they stop feeling like a foreign language.