The Day I Let My Fandom Show (and What It Taught Me About Confidence)

It sat folded on the corner of my dresser for a week.

The Popfunk Star Trek tee—black cotton, soft as a second skin, with the USS Enterprise printed like it had just beamed in from another galaxy. I had bought it on a whim. Or maybe not a whim—maybe it was something deeper. Something long overdue. But once it arrived, something in me hesitated.

I kept glancing at it, running my hand over the graphic, thinking tomorrow.

It wasn’t about the shirt, really. Not the fabric or the fit or whether it matched my jeans. It was about what it meant. What it said—about me, about who I was choosing to be that day, out loud.

That’s the thing about fandom. For some people, it’s just entertainment. For others, it’s home. A language. A safe place to feel things that maybe the world doesn’t always give you space for. But when you wear it—when you make it visible—you’re saying something. You’re claiming it. And that can be terrifying.

Because then what? What if someone laughs? Or worse, what if someone assumes things? Like you’re a geek. Or you’re childish. Or you’re trying too hard to belong to something.

I’ve always had this tension in me—this pull between wanting to show up fully, and wanting to disappear. I’m not shy, not exactly, but I am… careful. Too careful, sometimes. I’ve hidden behind plain clothes, neutral opinions, and polite laughter in rooms that didn’t feel like mine. Not because I didn’t have thoughts or joy or obsessions—but because I didn’t trust they’d be welcome.

It sounds small, maybe. Just a T-shirt. Just a logo. But it isn’t. It never is.

The truth is, I was scared. Not just of judgment, but of what it might stir in me—wearing something that felt like me, in public. It’s easier to stay muted. Less vulnerable. Quieter. But quiet can also mean lonely.

So the shirt sat there. A dare from my bolder self.

Then one Thursday morning, without thinking too hard, I put it on.

I looked in the mirror and braced myself for the discomfort. It came—quick and shallow, like a chill. But underneath it… there was something else. A flicker of pride? Relief? Maybe even—God, I hate to say it—joy?

I stepped outside, hoodie unzipped just enough to show the design. Half-hoping someone would notice. Half-hoping no one would.

At the coffee shop, the barista grinned. “Nice shirt,” she said, punching in my order. “Old-school Trek?”

I nodded, surprised by how warm her words felt. Not because I needed approval. But because, for once, I didn’t have to explain myself.

And maybe that’s where it starts.

Confidence, I’ve learned, isn’t something you summon. It’s something you build. And you don’t build it all at once. It grows in layers. One choice at a time. One step. One shirt.

The world trains us to think we need to feel ready before we act. That boldness is a prerequisite for self-expression. That we need certainty to be visible. But what I’m finding—again and again—is that confidence isn’t a precondition. It’s a result.

It happens because you took the step. Because you said yes to the part of you that wanted to show up. Even if you’re trembling. Even if you’re doubting. Even if the voice in your head is still trying to talk you out of it.

Especially then.

I wish more people talked about this—the weird, quiet courage it takes to share the things you love in a world that often rewards sameness. I wish we made more space for the messy, unsure, in-between parts of becoming.

Because fandom isn’t just trivia and collections and conventions. It’s memory. Comfort. Identity. And when you tuck those things away, out of sight, you lose something. A piece of aliveness. A little spark that might’ve connected you with someone else who needed it too.

That day in the coffee shop, no one made fun of me. No one rolled their eyes or asked me to “name five episodes.” The Earth didn’t tilt. Nothing exploded.

But something inside me shifted.

Not dramatically. Not like some movie montage where I suddenly became the most confident version of myself. But a small, real shift. A tiny click of alignment.

I had worn something that felt like home. And the world didn’t end.

So the next day, I wore it again.

Not because I was suddenly fearless, but because I didn’t want to go back to hiding.

And honestly, there are still days I hesitate. Days I reach for that old gray hoodie instead, the one that lets me blend in. And that’s okay. Not every day has to be a declaration. Some days, survival is quiet. Some days, the boldest thing you can do is just get through.

But on the days I can—on the days I have it in me—I try to choose visibility.

Because when you show what you love, you’re not just making a statement. You’re making space. For joy. For connection. For the possibility that someone else out there is holding the same part of themselves close to their chest, wondering if it’s safe to let it show.

And maybe your choice—your shirt, your pin, your patch, your story—helps them take their own step.

That’s the magic of it. The ripple.

I’m still not someone who walks into a room and commands it. I still second-guess myself in line at the grocery store. Still shrink a little when I hear a snide remark on the train. But I’ve started trusting that what I love matters. That it deserves daylight. That it’s not embarrassing to be passionate. It’s brave.

So if you’re hesitating—if you’re standing in front of the mirror wondering whether to wear the thing that feels like you—this is me, quietly nudging you.

You don’t have to feel ready.

You just have to feel… honest.

Wear the thing.

Let them see.

Let you see.

And if no one says a word, or if someone does and it stings—come find me. We’ll talk Trek. Or Marvel. Or Studio Ghibli. Or whatever it is that makes your heart flicker like a transporter beam. You’re not alone in this.

And no, you’re not weird for hesitating.

That hesitation? That’s just the doorway.

Confidence is what shows up when you walk through.