Someone Bought Me a Ken Doll
Last September I turned 53
The night before my birthday a package was delivered from Amazon. It was clearly addressed to me, but there was no return address on it. Which added a fun sense of mystery to its arrival.
I assumed it must be a surprise gift, so I eagerly began opening the package and looked inside. And that’s when I saw a flash of unmistakable pink…
Barbie pink.
I smiled as I reached in to pull out the gift—my brain already knowing what I was about to see. Barbie’s long-time boyfriend…
Ken.
I laughed as I said out loud, “Who got me a Ken doll”?!
Right away I started texting friends…“Hey, did you send me a Ken doll for my birthday?”
One by one, they all denied sending it to me. Most of them thought I was joking, and every response was some mix of confused, entertained, or “Wait… what?”
And as amusing as it was, what they all didn’t know is that the doll actually held a lot of meaning for me.
See, recently I’ve been having a flood of childhood memories come to surface. And unfortunately, many are painful. Long tucked away in a corner of my mind behind a huge metal mental door with a large sign attached to it reading, “DO NOT OPEN!”
But sometimes, without warning, that door will open on its own. And when it does, I find myself wrestling with what walks out.
I love toys
When I was little, it was easy to play with my brother. He was the oldest, and he had all the cool stuff—pocketknives, art supplies, and Star Wars figures. I was getting into G.I. Joe, and since the figures were the same size, they blended together perfectly. We were boys doing boy things—farting on each other, playing jokes on one another, and sneaking out of our rooms at night to watch Benny Hill.
My sister was different. She used to try making her own perfume, which I thought was fascinating in a “what else can you mix in there?” kind of way. She was the middle child, and like a lot of girls back then, she was into Barbie. And because I loved toys, I wanted to find a way to play with her too, the way my brother and I could.
But there was a problem.
I didn’t want to play as Barbie, or as one of Barbie’s friends, and my G.I. Joes were way too small. Now yes, the original G.I. Joes were the size of Barbies, but I never had any of them and they had been discontinued for a number of years. The new smaller ones are the ones I grew up with, but the scale was all wrong.
But still, I wanted a character of my own, someone who belonged in her Barbie world.
Which gave me an idea… if I could get a Ken doll, I could play with her! Excitedly, I hatched a plan. The next time we went to Kmart, I was going to convince my parents to buy me a Ken doll. And I didn’t have to wait long. That night I found myself at Kmart, breezing past the Star Wars and G.I. Joe guys, and straight into an aisle of pink.
And there he was, Ken.
It didn’t matter to me that he was technically a “Barbie” doll. And I didn’t mind that he came in a pink box. He represented a way to connect with my sister, to have some laughs, and build some fun memories with her.
So I picked him up, turning the box in my hands, imagining how fun it would be to have my own character in whatever story my sister created. And like any kid holding a toy they want, I began to think about how to ask my parents to buy him for me.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two older boys walk by the end of the aisle. I looked up as they saw me holding the doll. As soon as we made eye contact, one of them pointed at me and said to the other with laughter, “Look at that fag playing with Barbie dolls!”
In that moment, I really understood how much venom could be packed into words.
People love to say words don’t hurt, but they do. Especially when you’re a child without the tools to know what to do with them. And especially when two older kids are using them as weapons against you.
Ridicule is painful and mockery is brutal.
My face went hot, and for a second my body froze. I looked down at the ground as an overwhelming sense of shame came over me. I could hear them laughing as I sheepishly put the Ken doll back as quietly as I could, like I had just gotten caught doing something terrible, and I was guilty.
Defeated, I walked away and found my parents, hoping to get out of the store as fast as possible so I wouldn’t run into those kids again.
After that, I never again entertained the idea of getting a Ken doll or even playing Barbie with my sister. And until recently, I had never told anyone what had happened.
Because the message those kids delivered was very clear:
I should feel ashamed for who I am.
I should feel guilty for what I want.
I’m stupid and worthy of ridicule.
We adopt the stories others give us
A lot of people grow up with narratives like that.
Stories they adopt as truth because someone told them:
“You’re too much!”
“You’re so dramatic!”
“You always want attention!”
“You’re so stupid!”
“You’re ugly!”
“You’re fat!”
“You’re too skinny!”
“You’re so weak!”
“What’s wrong with you?!”
Those messages cling to our soul and easily attach themselves to our identity. They follow you into adulthood and shape the way you show up in rooms, relationships, and opportunities.
It’s wild how a sentence spoken by someone, even if they barely know you, can become the internal script that runs your whole life.
A careless comment.
A parent who said something they don’t even remember.
A teacher with a short fuse.
A friend who didn’t know the weight of their words.
A partner who used your insecurities as leverage.
A bully in a store aisle.
A moment you never told anyone about.
But bad narratives can be rewritten.
And they should be.
Try this
Take a moment to consider the narratives you’ve accepted.
The ones spoken to hurt you, ridicule you, and shame you.
The ones that attached to your sense of self… your identity.
Here are a few prompts to help uncover them:
1. What was a moment from childhood where you shrank, hid, or stayed quiet because of how someone responded to you?
2. What words from someone else still echo in your mind when you try something new, vulnerable, or exciting?
3. What shame-based labels did you internalize without realizing it?
Once you’ve identified them, ask yourself:
1. What would you say to that younger version of yourself today?
2. What’s the unapologetic truth of who you really are?
One honest moment has the power to dismantle years of borrowed narratives.
So now what?
So, back to the Ken doll that showed up at my doorstep.
After about an hour of playing detective, I finally found the answer.
It was my friends Joy and Ben.
Joy had remembered me sharing this old story. She remembered the child I described — the one who just wanted to be near his sister. The one who got blindsided in a Kmart aisle by cruelty he didn’t know how to interpret.
And she wanted to close that loop for me.
A Ken doll might seem like a funny gift, and it is… but it was also incredibly thoughtful. Because who knew healing could be wrapped in Barbie pink.
Ever upward.
*The language in this story reflects what was said to me as a child. I include it only to tell the truth, never to diminish or disrespect anyone.
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