Paper Doll

Have you ever felt yourself changing faster than your world can keep up—and then realized the world is watching? In Paper Doll: Notes from a Late Bloomer, Dylan Mulvaney argues that becoming yourself is both a private rite and a public act when your life unfolds on the internet. She contends that late-blooming womanhood—claimed out loud, day by day—can be joyful, comic, raw, and deeply costly, especially when identity meets commerce and culture war. To live it, you must understand how to build tenderness into visibility, set boundaries with brands and critics, and stitch together meaning in the blast radius of fame.

In this guide, you’ll see how Mulvaney turns "Days of Girlhood" into a daily ritual, navigates the firestorm of "Beergate" after a beer sponsorship, and rebuilds her mental health amid paparazzi, bomb threats, and dissociation. You’ll then learn how she repairs faith and family, pursues gender-affirming care with agency (from laser to facial feminization surgery), and reframes healing through ayahuasca in Peru. Finally, you’ll explore her "Celebrity 2.0" blueprint—trading the polished persona for present, truth-forward leadership—along with her awkward, funny, and brave return to desire and dating. Along the way, we’ll examine the mechanics of virality, the economics of influence, and the spiritual muscles that keep a late bloomer standing.

A memoir told in two timelines

Mulvaney splits the book between her first 365 days of transition (journal entries, 2022–2023) and the post-"Beergate" fallout (essays spanning before/after). That structure lets you feel both the innocent thrill of firsts—first tampon purchase, first beard video, first red carpet—and the weight of consequences when identity collides with politics and profit. The tonal range is intentional: campy Day 30 carpet glam with Kathy Hilton sits alongside security arrangements, paparazzi outside her hedge, and a dissociative shutdown in a Four Seasons hallway.

The core claim: sweetness is strength

Even as she learns harder edges (lawyers, contracts, safety plans), Mulvaney’s contention is disarmingly old-fashioned: "the fight to remain sweetly earnest as we age just might be the greatest fight of all." She flips apologies to gratitude in her comments, thanks women for support when early videos trigger TERF backlash, and protects her right to be goofy (interviewing bison, dancing at The Box) while addressing sobering realities (contracts that silence, bomb threats after a 15-second ad). The memoir suggests you can be both Barbie-pink and deeply principled—if you know when to say no and when to ask for help. (Compare Brené Brown on vulnerability as courage; see also Elliot Page’s Pageboy for the cost of visibility.)

Why these ideas matter now

We live in a moment when identity is clickbait and algorithms turn lives into products. Mulvaney’s story is a field manual for anyone building in public—queer or not. She shows how to weather internet pile-ons, re-center your nervous system, and transmute scandal into service (raising nearly $200,000 for The Trevor Project at her Day 365 "live"). She also models boundary-setting with family: breaking with her mother after a painful dispute over trans youth, then finding a language to repair. When she can’t find answers in press cycles, she looks to ritual—silent days in the woods, AA wisdom from her dad, a Unitarian service with a bowl of stones, a psychedelic ceremony in Cusco (with clear caveats).

Key Idea

“TikTok fattened me up. Big corporate bought me. And the media devoured me.” Mulvaney’s line isn’t nihilism—it’s instruction. Know the food chain you’re entering, and build your own spine: a therapist/coach (Mory), best friend (Lily), elders (Alok), and clear values.

What you’ll take away

Expect practical micro-moves—like turning "sorry" into "thank you," swapping doomscrolling for presence with a friend at the Grove, or choosing security over optics—as well as big frameworks: "Celebrity 1.0 vs 2.0;" a somatic language for dissociation; and a nuanced, safety-first approach to disclosure and desire. You’ll see how to hold both/and: a tie-dye muumuu and a White House interview; a Barbie pouch and medical privacy; a bad headline and a standing ovation at the Rainbow Room while singing Sondheim as your dad rushes the stage to hug you.

If you’ve ever tried to become more yourself while everyone else had an opinion, Paper Doll gives you a human-scale playbook: laugh where you can, bind up what hurts, choose your partnerships, and keep your heart—on and off camera—soft and sturdy.

Mulvaney launches Days of Girlhood like a scrappy creative sprint: one video per day for a year documenting transition "firsts." Day 1 (March 11, 2022) is both tender and theatrical—a seven-minute coming-out video recorded with barrettes and chicken cutlets, followed by a satirical clip to lighten the mood. Within 48 hours, she’s fielding strange viralities: TERF pile-ons, then an army of supportive women drowning them out. By Day 3 she learns a vital social alchemy—switch "I’m sorry" to "thank you"—a small move that breaks the shame spiral and invites community to co-author the story.

Why a daily series works

Daily cadence builds intimacy and resilience. Mulvaney can’t over-polish; she has to post. That gives you (and her) permission to be in-process. Day 17, she shows her worst insecurity: a fast-growing beard. She names it, laughs at it, and commits to laser—even if it means living with a full beard one week each month between sessions. When you practice public micro-bravery, your nervous system learns, “I can survive.” (Think of James Clear’s "atomic habits"—small daily reps that rewire identity.)

Performing vs. being perceived

Mulvaney is a trained musical theater kid; she knows staging. But the series forces her to examine perception. At the Fashion LA Awards (Day 30), she’s finally on the carpet as herself—feathered white dress, palm-tree ponytail—and Gigi Gorgeous and Kathy Hilton validate her as “passing.” It thrills her…and complicates things. Performing gender for the camera isn’t the same as being safe in bathrooms, or being seen by family. The series becomes a lab where she experiments with identity and the gaze in real time.

Olive branches and boundaries

Her Day 12 “tampon in purse” video—meant as an ally move for bathroom solidarity—goes hyper-viral, misread as provocation. Lesson: even good-faith gestures can become culture war fodder. Still, she keeps showing up with humor: a "Normalize the Bulge" jingle (Day 89), then learning to tuck with Isadora and Lina, two trans women who gift her specialized panties and, more importantly, peer mentoring. Online you’ll offer olive branches; offline you’ll need aunties.

First hundred days tactics

• Flip the script: thank supporters instead of apologizing to detractors; it draws allies closer.
• Name the monster: call out the beard, the bulge, the fear—naming reduces power.
• Find IRL anchors: Keesh’s flea-market day, Wetzel’s Pretzels, the Grove—mundane rituals ground viral spikes.

Key Idea

“I changed ‘I’m sorry’ to ‘thank you’ and noticed something wild began to happen.” Gratitude reframes your audience as collaborators, not judges.

The series also becomes a career accelerant: a Judy Blume interview, auditions as a leading lady, a Day 365 Rainbow Room benefit that raises nearly $200,000. But Mulvaney never downplays the toll. The same daily exposure that gives you momentum also makes you porous to hate. Paper Doll asks: will you keep your heart supple enough to feel wonder (Kathy Hilton thinking you’re cis) and sturdy enough to hold heat (bathroom interrogations, policy debates, family questions) without snapping? (For a sharp critique of influencer precarity, see Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror or Emily Hund’s The Influencer Industry.)

“Beergate” is the memoir’s fulcrum. After a successful Instagram ad for a major beer brand—and a personalized can celebrating Day 365—Mulvaney posts a breezy March Madness spot in full Audrey glam. A conservative firestorm erupts: Kid Rock films himself shooting beer cans; headlines multiply; paparazzi stake out her street; a UPS errand turns into a sidewalk ambush. In one line, she maps the pipeline: “TikTok fattened me up. Big corporate bought me. And the media devoured me.”

The flashpoint vs. the system

The ad isn’t the whole story; the system is. Contracts muzzle responses (“let it die down quietly”), third-party agencies pay for security while the brand won’t, and weeks later the news cycle still milks the outrage. When she wants to simply say, “Please don’t hurt trans people,” lawyers advise caution. This is what happens when personal identity becomes an industrial supply chain. (Context: similar dynamics surface in corporate Pride backlash cycles.)

What misalignment feels like

Mulvaney admits she “took brand deals that weren’t on-brand.” It’s not a scolding; it’s a nervous-system note. The misalignment shows up as dread, tears on a hard call with her team, a Capri cigarette on the porch. The lesson is practical: vet partners for value alignment, crisis plans, and veto power on statements. If they can’t say, “Trans people deserve to live,” they don’t deserve your face on their can.

Safety and the human cost

Reality gets surreal: bomb threats at a factory; a camera pointed into her gate; a bodyguard “smaller than both Lily and me—but he had a gun.” Mulvaney cancels trips outside, copes by FaceTiming Jonathan Van Ness (“Give those photographers a run for their money!”), and fights her instincts to fix what can’t be fixed. The cost isn’t just money; it’s attention, sleep, and the sensation that even your cashiers or mail carriers might be secret haters. Paranoia is a trauma response, not a personality flaw.

How to respond anyway

• Reclaim your voice: she eventually posts a measured video on the last day of Pride telling the truth and asking allies to show up. It shrinks the bowling ball of guilt.
• Create a backstop: a coach (Mory), mentors (Alok), and best friend (Lily) function as emotional air bags.
• Set a risk budget: if a brand can’t fund security in a crisis, walk.

Key Idea

Visibility without infrastructure is vulnerability. If you monetize your face, pre-negotiate your safety.

Beergate also reframes fame. Mulvaney had wanted Broadway-famous (sign playbills, not chased by cameras). TikTok delivered “IT Girl” speed—rooms with Lady Gaga comments and Allure shoots—then punished her for forgetting she’d always be politicized. The corrective is not cynicism; it’s consent. Say yes to showtunes and charities; say no to brands that see you as a trend. (For deeper analysis, compare Emily Hund on influencer-brand asymmetries.)

After Beergate, Mulvaney’s inner landscape floods. She invents a dark game—“How long can I go without wanting to die?”—and names her numbness: “Dylan’s not home right now.” She dissociates during a Judy Blume junket ambush where a “journalist” shouts slurs by the women’s restroom; the video later makes her cry, watching the light leave her own eyes. These pages don’t glamorize crisis; they index it so you can recognize symptoms in yourself.

Signals your system is overloaded

• Dissociation (feeling like a Sim controlling “Dylan Mulvaney”).
• Paranoia (is my Trader Joe’s cashier a troll?).
• Compulsive phone checks and doomscrolling.
• Humor as anesthesia (Capri on the porch, Twilight soundtrack on loop).

What helps in the moment

Mulvaney never pretends there’s a single cure. She builds a kit: bodyguards when needed, baths with Lily, phone-free time, “make a video to my own people,” and Mory’s grounding: “Baby, get ready. You just got a lot more famous.” She also tries distance—declining Fashion Week later—to quiet the ego’s needy loop and restore sleep. When she can’t fix, she names: “God grant me the serenity…” received from her sober dad.

Friends as lifelines, not magicians

Best friend Lily is both ballast and mirror. She spirals (“What if someone kills me too?”) and also draws baths, arranges mac-and-cheese sleepovers, and sits at the Day 365 bed while Dylan sobs over the Sondheim monologue. Elders like Alok advise strategy (“You were slain; now recover from the slay”) and remind her to keep creating. You can’t outsource healing to friends, but you can borrow their steadiness.

Comedy as medicine

Returning to stand-up, she reframes Beergate as bits—punchlines that let her body metabolize shock. Laughter isn’t denial; it’s digestion. (Compare Hannah Gadsby’s work or the tradition of queer comics turning stigma into craft.)

Key Idea

When you can’t fix the storm, shrink the stage. Fewer events, more naps, smaller rooms where you can hear real laughter.

Mulvaney also models an honest threshold: she considers checking into a facility and fears the headline; she chooses instead to piece together a quilt—retreats, coaching, ritual, and later ayahuasca. The point isn’t choosing psychedelics; it’s choosing something steady and safe to meet the scale of what you’ve lived.

Mulvaney’s family arc is jagged, tender, and useful if your people can’t keep pace with your becoming. Her dad, a Catholic AA veteran who once feared she’d be a baseball kid, now calls from Bora Bora because a French woman corrected him: “That’s your daughter.” He adjusts faster to "she" than to they/them. His gift is simple fidelity (and Costco goggles).

Mothers are harder, and worth it

Dana, her mom, once put a “Yes on Prop 8” sign in the yard and cried in therapy, fearing a gay son’s hard road. She also shows up at the billboard on Sunset, says "spa days" are her “favorite part of girlhood,” and later, in a raw call after Dylan interviews President Biden, declares she can’t support trans kids transitioning. Dylan replies, "As of right now, you aren’t my mom anymore"—a line she regrets and, months later, undoes. Therapy, time, and a pre–Day 365 phone call reopen the door. Dana says, “I can’t live without you…I am team Dylan.” Repair is real, but it isn’t linear.

Rituals help when dogma can’t

Mulvaney experiments with faith without returning to Catholic guilt. She tries a Unitarian service (stones for joys/sorrows), attends AA-adjacent wisdom via her dad, and writes bedtime prayers. The point isn’t theology; it’s a rhythm of meaning-making. (Compare Glennon Doyle’s Untamed on rewilding faith.)

Make the uncomfortable ordinary

A Palm Springs pool weekend with her mom’s side is awkward (lavender bikini, tucking panties under water) and then…normal. She babysits twins on camera (Day 99), eats hotel mac-and-cheese, and lets questions come (FFS? bottom surgery?). You can’t wait to see your family until you’re “finished.” Seeing each other mid-stream is what softens everyone’s edges.

Key Idea

Repair favors specifics: a billboard cameo, a joint therapy session, a "call-before-the-Sondheim-song." Big reconciliations are the sum of small yeses.

If you’ve got a Dana, Paper Doll doesn’t promise instant affirmation. It offers a process: live your life in view (not as proof but as presence), hold your boundary when harm crosses a line, and—if/when there’s movement—meet it with a measured heart.

Mulvaney narrates gender-affirming care with a mix of candor and boundaries. She’s euphoric about height, frame, and shoe size; undone by facial hair; and strategic about timing. Orange color-corrector becomes a stage prop; laser sessions at a clinic with Bible quotes are “God’s house” where her privates get zapped with clinical commands. It’s funny because it’s specific—and instructive because it’s honest about cost, pain, and privacy.

From dysphoria to know-how

She learns terms (TERF, tucking), meets mentors (Isadora and Lina), and upgrades from Calvin Klein briefs to purpose-built tucking panties. Trans peer knowledge (“Trans Table Talk”) moves beyond what cis allies can teach: dosage chatter, FFS “turnout,” even the slang of "Missy" (penis) and "Cassie" (castration). Safety and euphoria are co-equal: she names when peeing is hellish so others won’t be surprised.

FFS, the big consult

At Dr. Harrison Lee’s office, nurse Vilma hugs her like kin, then Lee lists the plan: shave brow bone, lift brows, lower hairline, rhinoplasty, lip lift, possible cheek implants, contour chin/jaw, and tracheal shave (conservatively, to protect her voice). She pays her deposit for December 16. Post-op she’s “giving swollen Frankenstein,” misgendered by nurses, and chooses not to make an apology video about other people’s discourse over her face. Boundary: not everything is content.

Desire, disclosure, and safety

She hasn’t been kissed as a girl; hormones lower libido; a friend touts “Cassie.” In London, a reality-star type presses for a kiss; she stops to disclose. He needs a minute. He googles Beergate. He returns…then pivots to ask if her friend will “join.” Boundary: cheek only. Later in LA, she kisses a Romanian at a bar; a dinner table of trans friends helps craft a disclosure text; his reply (“I feel like you were tricking me”) stings; she decides not to let one man be the story.

Key Idea

Medical decisions are yours; disclosure is contextual; safety is non-negotiable. Curiosity from others is not the same as entitlement.

Paper Doll gives you vocabulary for body autonomy—what to share, when to laugh, when to say “no,” and how to hold your future lightly (maybe bottom surgery, maybe not; always your call). (For foundational framing, see Alok Vaid-Menon’s Beyond the Gender Binary and Jan Morris’s Conundrum.)

When standard coping runs out, Mulvaney goes woo-woo responsibly. After a weeklong detox in Northern California—olive-oil "flushes," silent days, and a near-lawsuit over an Instagram selfie that breaches a smartphone contract—she hears a deeper call: ayahuasca in Peru. She works with Alyssa (a former agent turned retreat host) and Shipibo healer "Onanya"; pauses hormones for the dieta; and travels to Cusco with appropriate reverence and caution. (Note: she acknowledges legality and sets, and the book itself flags US law.)

What she encounters

Night One: geometric palms, then Mother Ayahuasca as a pink lotus-like presence. A sense of origin (“where I came from”), a painful rebirth, and a startling somatic moment—milk from her nipples while holding imagined babies. A message: your purpose includes mothering—actual kids and queer youth. Night Two: impatience, then instruction—“Guilt will never work.” She revisits sexual experiences and feels pieces of herself chip like porcelain, followed by a promise that mutual love is possible. Night Three: a catalogue of pain (divorce news, locker-room cruelty, an abuser’s hand over her mouth). She meets "Dylan the Harlot"—the teenage bad-girl persona—who says, “I love who you are now.” She purges until empty, then opts out of Night Four in favor of pasta and a pisco sour.

Integration, not escapism

The point isn’t psychedelics; it’s meaning. She journals, plans themes for the next ceremonies with her coach, and returns home with fewer dark thoughts (zero the week of the trip). She does not move to Peru; she moves to a steadier relationship with her past, her mother, and the idea of future children. (Compare Michael Pollan’s How to Change Your Mind for frameworks; Mulvaney’s account is personal, metaphor-rich, and safety-conscious.)

Key Idea

Choose rituals that are as big as your pain—whether that’s a plant ceremony, a Sondheim song, or three days of silence. Healing scales to meet the wound.

By the time she’s back in a pew at a Unitarian service placing a stone in a bowl, you see the thread: tiny rituals (prayers, baths, pretzels) and epic ones (Rainbow Room, ayahuasca) all help her say, “I’m still here.”

Mulvaney and her coach, Mory, coin a framework you can use even if you’re not famous. Celebrity 1.0 is a meticulously managed persona—polished, palatable, and fragile. Celebrity 2.0 is presence-forward—truth over optics, boundaries over buzz, and creative purpose over clout. After Beergate, she notices her own slide into 1.0 (high-fashion photos to “stay relevant”) and starts declining invites (New York Fashion Week) to sleep, write, and do stand-up instead.

Case studies in 2.0

She meets a beloved star who only wants a TikTok collab and repeatedly misgenders her—Mulvaney sets a boundary and doesn’t post. Another sparkly friend frames scandal as a lifecycle: “You were slain; now recover from the slay.” A London icon gets real over pasta and weed, grasps her shoulders, and vows: “Don’t you dare let them take all this magic away.” Mentors can model both caution and fight.

The Plaza, the Rainbow Room, and purpose

Living at the Plaza (Eloise cosplay included) to mount Day 365 could’ve been 1.0 spectacle. Instead, it becomes 2.0 service: raising funds for The Trevor Project, inviting trans talent (Dominique Jackson, L Morgan Lee, Reneé Rapp, JVN), and scripting an 11-o’clock Sondheim medley that talks directly to kids and parents. When she breaks down in rehearsal, she calls her mom to clear the emotional airway. The result? A standing ovation and her AA dad rushing the stage to hug her during the show.

Principles you can borrow

• Tell the truth sooner: it saves nervous-system interest later.
• Serve a cause: charity nights fortify you against fickle virality.
• Flip FOMO to JOMO: the joy of missing out (to rest, write, rehearse) fuels longer arcs.

Key Idea

If IT Girl is temporary, skill and service are durable. Keep singing, keep writing, keep showing up for your people.

This culminates in a White House interview on trans rights. She’s not a policy wonk; she’s an optimistic bridge. Afterward, she cries—not from backlash but from a painful call with her mom. Paper Doll’s 2.0 isn’t polish; it’s alignment. Choose the rooms where you can be whole, and let the others go.

Mulvaney’s return to desire is messy, funny, and wise. In London, a club bouncer’s allyship (“Ella” pulls her in from the rain) leads to a flirtation with a handsome reality alum. She discloses being trans before a first kiss; he needs a minute and consults Google. He comes back…and then asks if her married friend will “join.” Consent and self-respect win; she opts out. Later in LA, she becomes a joyful “kissing bandit” at Davey Wayne’s, then realizes she wants less aimless making out and more intentional intimacy.

Lily’s coaching clinic

At Hampstead Heath’s women’s pond, Lily lays out a playbook: don’t interrogate men on first contact, let them drive a bit, and—crucially—no “kissing bandit” behavior when the person could matter. Mulvaney practices a new laugh and eyes-across-the-bar look. It’s theater kid meets rom-com bootcamp, but beneath the comedy is a safety-first ethic and a belief that she deserves careful love.

Disclosure is case-by-case

She discloses before a kiss in London; she doesn’t at a dance floor in LA, where a friend later helps draft a disclosure text before a real date. His “you tricked me” reply confirms a red flag. Mulvaney’s rule of thumb becomes yours: you don’t owe strangers your medical history; if anything moves further south (emotionally or physically), you disclose with support in place.

Let desire evolve

Hormones dull libido; “Missy” doesn’t always lift off; a trans friend raves about "Cassie." Mulvaney experiments with identities of attraction (a later kiss with a gay man feels surprisingly safe). She lets go of “once I [have surgery]/[get electrolysis]/[look a certain way], then I’ll date.” The new mantra: love is available to who I am today.

Key Idea

You can protect your heart without hardening it. Boundaries make room for better kisses.

In the final pages, the promise isn’t a fiancé; it’s a posture. She wants Broadway, a pop ditty about girlhood, and a joyfriend who meets her as-is. That, too, is late-bloomer wisdom: time is on your side when you stop treating love like a finish line.