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Existing in Unseen Spaces

  • Salient Mag
  • May 12
  • 4 min read

By Te Urukeiha Tuhua (He/Ia) (Tūhoe)

Back in my hometown, I would slip outside my house silently to go for nighttime walks. Mum didn’t like it and she said it wasn’t safe, but I’ve always felt safer in the dark. I become invisible. There were rarely any other people out, and few cars drove by. It was almost as though I was the only person left in the world, which was lonely, but it was a reprieve from constantly performing for other people. I am uncomfortable with being perceived, and I hate feeling as though people are watching or observing me. I would prefer to exist in a dark space, alone. I feel limited in the ways that I can exist and simply be when other people are near me. 


In a society that places a lot of value on the way that we look, and our physical appearances are intrinsically connected to the way that people treat us, it is challenging to not constantly think about the way others view us. How could we not place so much value on the way that we look when it is ingrained in us to be hyper-aware of it? New insecurities are introduced everyday on Tiktok, each equally as nonsensical as the other. What on earth is ‘runner face’ and ‘leggings legs’? Social media encourages us to construct our identities for an audience, and rather than existing as myself I am adopting and taking on the opinions of other people. I crave being seen and understood, so I try to figure out which artist represents my personality and aesthetic the most: Mitski or Lana Del Rey? I go out thrifting, and instead of thinking about practicality and comfort I am thinking about what I should wear that will make me seem cool; perhaps a little mysterious. I am packaging myself up in a way that is pretty and presenting my identity in that way; but it makes me feel disconnected from who I truly am and what feels right to me. 


I spend too much time worrying about the appearance of my body and how to make myself attractive and desirable. Shaving different areas of myself even though it doesn’t feel right. I feel that I have to shape myself and conform to a standard that doesn’t come naturally to me, and always leaves me feeling inadequate. My own sexuality feels like a performance that is entirely centred around the wants of a man. He can think about his pleasure, and everything that we do will inevitably lead to him having an orgasm. Maybe I will have one too, but it is the secondary thought. It’s not a priority. A bonus, but not considered necessary. Because of this, I don’t even know what feels good to me. I haven’t thought about it, because I have never felt like what I want matters or is of any importance. 


I know I’m not alone in this. Colonisation brought about a lot of shame surrounding sex, particularly for women and queer people. We often feel guilt around experiencing pleasure in our bodies and expressing what we want, because we were told that the way that we do things is wrong. There is also a lot of pressure to conform to Western standards of beauty and ways of life. It can feel as though we must discard parts of our identity in order to be successful in life. When we try to mould ourselves differently to fit a standard that has never worked for us, we lose some of our own self-expression. It takes us away from who we are. 


I venture outside and find a space where I am hidden from the eyes of other people. Thousands of stars are dotted around the sky, and even though I have seen it many times before I never cease to be amazed at the largeness of it all. I think about how the universe is not confined to a box. It expands and adapts and transforms, and I am a part of it, moving with it. I am a ballet dancer, and when I dance I become more than just my body. I am creating a presence on the stage, becoming larger than I am as I bound across the floor, lifting and lilting with grace. I think about the strength of my movements and how far I can leap. My arms mimic the patterns of the waves, pushing and resisting. I am no longer focusing on the way my body looks and I am not performing for anyone other than myself. Instead, I focus on how I feel. Connected to the world around me, the movements making me feel free and inhibited. For a moment I can shake away the pressure and expectations of existing for other people. Nobody watches, except for the moon. 


Takatāpui is an identity that doesn’t make me feel as though I need to live up to anything. It doesn’t demand anything of me, and it makes it easier for me to believe that how I am right now is enough. It connects me to the land and tells me that I belong here. It encourages me to decolonise my own mind, to reconnect with myself and my culture. Slowly, I begin to trust what my body and intuitions are telling me about myself. Who I feel drawn towards, who I feel safe around. Who causes my heart to race and flutter like butterflies. I learn about the ways I can express myself that feel right and good, and don’t make me feel like I am trying to perform for an audience. Accepting that I am allowed to feel good and that I deserve to feel good can feel like a radical step; this is probably remnants of generational trauma of being shamed for the way we do things, but it’s hard to tell really. All I know is that it gets easier the more that I embrace my identity. It helps to go for those nighttime walks, although in a place like Pōneke it’s hard to find a place where nobody else is around. Maybe I’ll actually have to go for a proper bush walk. 

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