In April of that year, I made another decision that would change my trajectory. After Queer Eye launched in February, by April I was at half a million followers on Instagram and my podcast Getting Curious had cracked the Top 10 on the iTunes podcast charts. But I was still doing hair five days a week and deep in credit card debt so I could pay my publicist. I’d been with an agency that, through the entire launch of Queer Eye, hadn’t reached out for a meeting or shown any interest in my future. I made the decision to switch teams and start working with a different agency.
Listen: It’s always hard for me to do that kind of thing because of her loyal-tea. But I had learned this lesson before, and this time I took care of it faster. If you’re on a team that’s not as passionate about your path as you are, then, queen, no harm no foul but you gotta go. And go I did to a team that changed my career forever.
No longer was I in the salon full-time. Now I was full-time producing my podcast, doing brand deals, performing stand-up, and ultimately going on press for the second season of Queer Eye. By this point, my life was an all-out transformation of her own.
Most of my twenties I was focused on survival or self-destruction. I worked hard to get through the turbulence caused by my childhood, and I had come out stronger, smarter, and developed the tools to self-soothe and grow. Now I was ready to help others do the same. To have the opportunity to be able to do things for other people, to try to be my best authentic self and have that resonate in a way that inspires self-acceptance in others, was blowing my mind on a minute-to-minute basis. I brought my mom out to New York. It was her first time being there as an adult, and I wanted her to have an authentic experience, so I took her down to the subway. That was my first mistake.
God love her, my mom hadn’t been on the subway since she was fifteen years old and on vacation in London. Riding the train, she made deep, intense eye contact with every stranger there. Finally, a really sweet girl befriended us and realized that my mom’s unyielding gaze was that of a midwesterner and not a murderer. She distracted my mom in conversation until we got off at our stop.
As a surprise, I got us really great tickets to go see Hamilton. But I had a really severe case of my biannual bong-chitis, which cold temperatures have a way of really exacerbating. I had one of those coughs that rattled through my entire body, and I was just trying to stifle it, but it was coming out every ninety seconds for the entire first act. Hot tears were streaming down my face—not because of the actors’ incredible performances, but because I was so embarrassed.
Finally, the guy in front of me handed me a Ricola cough drop. “I love your show!” he whispered. It was one of those moments where I realized that my life had really changed.
In the second act, I was crying from a devastating turn of events. (I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen the show yet.) I could feel my mom’s little shoulders shrugging, too, and I turned to look at her, expecting to see her sobbing just like I was. But instead, she was laughing at me, because I was crying so intensely.
My mom has always been full of surprises. One time she sent me back a box full of all the gorgeous presents I’d ever made for her. I thought it was a slap in the face, but it turned out she was just decluttering her basement. Totally savage.
A few years ago, she learned to quilt. For Christmas, she had the nerve to make my two little nephews these really fierce baby blanket quilts. Meanwhile, she got me a gift card. Rude. How could she make a precious handmade gift for toddlers who barely even know her? I wasn’t sure how my brothers weren’t filled with this jealousy, so I very aggressively joked to my mom about how badly I needed a quilt for my thirty-first birthday.
I asked if she would make me one with some of my favorite power ladies on it. And so she went to Expressions by Christine in Quincy and printed out photos of all my favorite girls and made me a quilt with the following women on it: Aly Raisman, Simone Biles, Sarah Jessica Parker, Michelle Kwan, Michelle Obama, Midori Ito, Venus and Serena, Tonya Harding, Shannon Miller, Rue McClanahan, the cast of the First Wives Club, Princess Diana, Kerri Strug, Tara Lipinski, my grandma, herself (my mom), Julia Roberts, Reba McEntire, Nancy Kerrigan, Beyoncé, Whitney Houston, Madeleine Albright, and the Dixie Chicks. I love that quilt—it’s on my bed. See, Mom, I totally use it.
* * *
Queer Eye’s success has allowed me to have opportunities that are beyond my wildest dreams. It’s more than I ever could have imagined would happen to me. And as amazing as those experiences are, having that many eyeballs on you and having your life and your career change that quickly brings on a new set of challenges and pressures and expectations, all of which have become factors in my life that I’ve tried to incorporate with grace and ease. But I do tend to struggle with popping the fuck off on social media. Sometimes my replies get a little hot-and-salty on ya. But I do the best I can because I’m still the same Jonathan that I was before I became famous. And I still have the same quick and inquisitive mind that has a lot of opinions. But I’m learning that with this amplified voice, those popping-off moments can be hurtful for the person I clap back to. Some days are easier than others, but I’m always trying to learn and do my best.
One thing that bothers me is when people only want me to be one thing: this effervescent, gregarious majestic center-part-blow-dry cotton-candy figure-skating queen who wants to give you feedback on your eyebrows and compliment your haircut. I am that queen a lot of the time. But that’s not all of me. Sometimes I need to tweet about how we shouldn’t be lionizing Ronald Reagan when he has the blood of countless gay men on his hands. That’s when people tweet at me: “Can’t you leave politics out of it? What happened to my sweet JVN?” Those people have probably thrown this book down and burned it by this point, though.
Things have changed in other ways for me, too, since Queer Eye came out. In love and dating, I was already kind of a nuanced package. She had her own list of baggage coming into any relationship. Add millions of eyeballs to your already nuanced package and dating life just became that much more complicated. Never before have I had to wonder if someone loved me for me or for the opportunities that my newfound success could bring in their life too. That’s an extremely painful lesson. But like every other lesson I’ve had to learn, I can transform those times of deep hurt and find an opportunity to love myself and forgive myself more deeply than I knew I could. I may have had to soak a couple pillowcases through it, but, honey, I guess I really am a Kelly Clarkson song.
What I’m really saying here is, being flexible with myself through the ebbs and flows of what life has brought me has been really important. As things shifted and changed in my life, I’ve had different needs. Sometimes I’ve convinced myself that I’m not able to be anything that I need in and of myself, so I’ve reached out for other things that can end up doing more harm than they do good. If I recognize that no matter how much my life changes I am enough, and I am loved in and of myself and by myself, I’ll be good.
Have you ever heard the adage that fame doesn’t change you—it just makes you more of who you are? My growing profile has made me even more loving and naively trusting, even when I shouldn’t share that much of myself. She’s working on it. And yet, I can’t resist showing all of myself in interviews or on social media—even when that means showing my anger or flaws. I might look like sixteenth-century Jesus, but I sometimes struggle with being the landlord of Petty Lane, and I still operate like I have the audience that I did in 2010, which carries with it a different responsibility. Sometimes I look back and wish I had waited a bit longer before posting this tweet or that post. Being gentle with myself when I fuck up helps. My default is to be really critical of myself, but the world will do that for me, so I gotta make sure I always know I have my back. In general, if you can’t take me at my raw, heated moment, you don’t deserve me at my composed Emmys glam moment.
I love taking selfies with people. I love meeting people and hearing their stories. It’s amazing. But sometimes I’m already twenty minutes
late to an appointment with my doctor. Literally. And as I’m running late, I see someone beeline across the street with their phone out, and they have that look in their eyes that tells me I know they want to spill their story, and I have to say, “Girl, you’re going to have to hit a hard U-turn and walk to this appointment with me if you want to chat,” and half the time the initial reaction is, “Ew,” because they think I’m being rude, but really I’m late to my doctor appointment, or the vet, or work.
Over the years I’ve heard horror stories of celebrities being dicks to nice people, and I always thought that was horrifying—why wouldn’t you be nice to your fans? What did you think you were getting into? But what I’ve realized is that you can’t be the same version of yourself at all times. Maybe your kidney function test results came back weird, so you have to go back to the doctor and you’re worried, but you can’t explain that to the fan who just wants a selfie. Maybe you just held your thirteen-year-old cat in your arms as they took their last breath, but the group of people wanting a picture don’t care—they want their bubbly JVN, and they want him right now. It’s been the honor of a lifetime to be held to this ideal, but what I really want to tell the people asking for photos is: I’m literally just as lost as you. I’m just as grateful. And I’m just as much of a perfectly imperfect mess. People are all layered—good and bad, filled with joy and sorrow. The key is being grounded in the relationship you have with yourself. Basing my worth in how I treat myself despite how others treat me has been the key to my success—and I want that for you too.
And I never want to be rude. But I’m literally going somewhere! Sometimes I’m running late to a meeting where there’s a whole big group of people with a lot of money riding on me being there. It used to be, if I was late for an appointment at the salon, that was skin off my client’s nose and the rest of my clients for the day. Now if I’m late, I could cause a whole set to derail. I could waste thousands of dollars. I could derail a project that a lot of people worked so hard on because I rolled in late, even if it was to make someone happy. Negotiating the new pace of my schedule with being so recognizable is a good problem to have, but it’s a way that my life has changed.
People think they know me based on what they saw on Queer Eye. But for that show, there’s sixty hours of footage shot for each episode, which gets edited down into a forty-five-minute run time. I don’t edit the show, so I don’t get to show you all the different sides of me on Queer Eye that you might see on Instagram, which is different from the one on Twitter, which is different from the one in the salon, which is different from the one doing stand-up, which is different from the one eating donut holes in front of the TV. (Some things, thankfully, never change.)
The thought of being dismissive to a kind person or a huge fan leaves a taste in my mouth like I’ve eaten a family-size pack of brown cinnamon sugar Pop-Tarts and gone to bed without brushing my teeth. As I’ve experienced a large swell in my public profile, I’ve understood a little bit more about the difficulties of balancing my personal life with a public persona. Think about how you would feel if you just stepped from office to office to office and never got to hang up your on-call hat. It can make you not be your best self. I hope that in writing about this part of my experience, I don’t leave that unflossed overnight Pop-Tart feeling in your mouth, because I would never complain about what I have. All I’m trying to explain is that every person you look up to, in whatever field they’re in, is still just a person, with their own insecurities, worries, selfishness, and endless well of love and forgiveness. Famous or not, people are all onions with many layers.
Which leads me back to the importance of your relationship with yourself. The media, celebrity comparison, and the beauty industry—these are all worth billions of dollars and cause people unspeakable pain and trauma. Knowing I don’t have to take on everything I hear and read as a complete truth for myself is my greatest freedom. Because at the end of the day, all we can control is ourselves in the vast array of situations we may find ourselves in. Controlling others and their choices is impossible, try as I might, so being compassionate and loving with myself can soften those uncomfortable outcomes. That’s true for everyone—celebrity or not. I didn’t look in the mirror and like what I saw until this one split second when I was sixteen. It was fleeting and very short. I spent so much time agonizing over my stomach fat, my love handles, my chest, and never felt the beauty of what I had. Feeling stuck in that space for so long made it difficult to learn to love how I look. I’ve been so many different shapes and sizes and have had to learn to love them all. We have unfortunately had very narrow definitions of beauty crammed down our throats for a long time. There are endless sexy shapes, colors, forms, and kinds of people who deserve celebration. It’s each one of our jobs to reject that comparison of what we think beauty is and realize we are the motherfucking beauty. What we see on the outside doesn’t always reflect what is inside, and vice versa. The only thing that matters is keeping your facts straight about how worthy you are of your own acceptance and love. Confidence is more about having courage to say you don’t always feel on and poppin’. You’re like, I’m not sure about how this outfit totally is working but damn it, I came to slay. Because I’m just so grateful for this moment.
You may see me serving a thigh-high boot, or a slayed red-carpet look, or doing something fabulous on the ’gram, but I’m still the same Jonathan who has to check in on all of my parts and make sure we are all okay. That we aren’t having that old voice that feels separated from everyone—not masculine enough, too feminine, too round, too loud—and let him know he is loved and valued. I asked you at the beginning of the book, would you still love me if you knew everything about me? I hope that you do. But even more, I hope sharing my story encourages people to be more aware and compassionate on issues that may not directly affect them and spread that compassion to more people who need it. I have come to learn, though, that the more you love and accept yourself, the less you need other people’s approval. I never want my childlike spirit, my desire to learn and entertain, to change. I’m still the same Jonathan, except nowadays I get to sleep under the tender gaze of all the power queens from my mom’s quilt.
Unless I’m having an intimate moment in the arms of another, in which case I take that quilt and put it down on the bench at the foot of my bed. It’s creepy to make love with your mom and Sarah Jessica Parker watching.
Epilogue
On the Ice
MY TOES WERE FREEZING. MY KNEES WERE SHAKING WITH stage fright in a way that I’ve never experienced. Some part of my brain was screaming: You can’t do this! This isn’t who you are! The autotuned beats of Cher’s 2002 smash “Song for the Lonely” began to play. I nervously clagged through my first pivot-and-jazz-hands-reach choreography. I knew that I had to step up my performance if this was going to be a success.
Anxiously, I bent into my knees as I turned my head to the right. A hand outstretched, ready to join mine in our next counts of choreography leading into our lunge sequence.
My eyes locked into her enchanting gaze. She gave me an encouraging smile.
That smile belonged to none other than the most decorated American figure skater of all time. Michelle Kwan.
We began our lunge sequence. Cher was cooing, “I’ve seen a strong man cry.” The tempo built. “When heroes fall . . . !” she sang. At that moment, I went into my seamlessly choreographed fall onto the ice. I knew I only had about four counts to go before Michelle picked my enamored gay face up in her hands, defeated yet hopeful, in time to dust the ice off and hit a stunning two-foot spin right at the apex of that first booming chorus: “This is a song for the lonely!” To the delight of Eliotskovatava—my skating coach, choreographer, and basically long-lost sister—we went from my spin right on cue to our synchronized choreography, then into our footwork and waltz jump sequence, moving perfectly into the rose-throwing onto the ice.
It was at that moment that I realized I wasn’t in a fever dream. I was working
with someone who I’ve looked up to my whole life, who for some incredibly otherworldly reason, was now my friend, and who had agreed to help me make a video to launch my first international comedy tour.
This wasn’t an acid trip. This was my life.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like to go back to Quincy, Illinois, and see little Jack, that part of myself who was bullied to the ends of his world. I would tell that sweet powdered-donut-obsessed little boy who was so desperate for any morsel of love or acceptance that the future had big things in store for him. That one day, he would get to create dances with Michelle Kwan. That he would be in a position to realize his lifelong dream of learning to figure-skate, leaving his carpet routines far behind. That he would sell out Radio City Music Hall in front of six thousand people screaming for him to do a floor routine of his own with a special Michelle Kwan cameo, and that his ass would do a standing back tuck at thirty-two, HONEY!
What would Jack have done? He would have sprouted wings, flown up to a building, jumped off, and landed on his feet unharmed. And then he would have sent adult me to rehab, because I was clearly on drugs and delusional.
I spent so much of my twenties pushing little Jack aside. Instead of nurturing that child, I tore him to pieces. I hurt myself even more with every chance I got. It wasn’t until I had lost everything I thought I wanted that I realized being an adult wasn’t about being “normal,” or having a life that seems enviable to people from the outside. Being a fulfilled and successful adult has required accepting that I do have an inner child who was hurt and traumatized. It’s my job as an adult to nurture him, alongside all the other parts of me that make me who I am.
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