I recently listened to the audiobook Pageboy, written and narrated by Elliot Page, and it’s one of those memoirs that stays with you long after the final chapter. I’ve admired Elliot Page as an actor for years. Whip It remains one of my all‑time favorite films, and his role in The Umbrella Academy is beautifully done, yet I realized when his book came out that I knew almost nothing about his personal journey. Hearing Pageboy in his own voice made the experience feel intimate, raw, and deeply human.
Growing up, my relationship with queerness felt fractured. I was raised in a strict Christian home, taught that being gay was a sin, but I also grew up in Europe, where the world outside my front door was far more open and accepting. It created this strange dual reality: I saw freedom all around me, yet I was told at home that who I might be was forbidden. I remember once hinting to my mother that I might like girls; the conversation ended immediately. I didn’t bring it up again. The feelings never disappeared; I learned to hide them. It wasn’t until 2022 that I could finally say the words out loud to myself: I’m gay, and it’s okay. Saying it to others took longer. Fear has a way of lingering, even when the truth feels like relief.
Listening to Elliot tell his story felt like someone turning on a light I didn’t know I needed. He speaks with incredible honesty about growing up, performing roles, both onscreen and in life, and struggling to live in a body that didn’t reflect who he was. So many of his descriptions echoed my own quiet, private discomfort. At one point, he reflects on how he saw himself before transitioning: how wearing feminine clothes felt unbearable, how summer made layering impossible, how he constantly tried to hide his chest or avoid his own reflection. When he said, “I couldn’t look at pictures because I was never there,” it stopped me. I knew exactly what he meant. I’ve lived that sensation, the disconnect between the person others see and the person you know yourself to be.
Pageboy is more than a memoir; it’s a liberation story. Elliot doesn’t shy away from the painful parts: dysphoria, shame, repression, survival. But woven through the heaviness is something bright, permission. Permission to exist, to take up space, to be whole. Listening to him articulate his truth gave me a quiet, steady reassurance that mine matters too.
For anyone who has ever questioned their gender, sexuality, or the rules they grew up with, Pageboy is a gift. For those who’ve hidden parts of themselves to stay safe, or stayed silent to keep the peace, or felt out of step with who the world told them to be, this book offers connection, understanding, and courage. Elliot doesn’t just tell you it’s okay to be yourself; he helps you believe it.
If you’re part of the LGBTQ+ community, or if you love someone who is, or if you’re simply trying to understand queer experience with more compassion, Pageboy is absolutely worth reading. Don’t hide who you are. Don’t shrink yourself. You deserve to live fully, honestly, and without apology. And as Elliot Page reminds us, that journey, difficult as it may be, is worth everything.
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