Prabal Gurung on His Memoir Walk Like a Girl & Reclaiming the Insults That Tried to Break Him

When is the right time to write a memoir? Some might say toward the end of a life, when one is reflecting, fueled by the benefit of time and hindsight. Or perhaps it’s best to put pen to paper after a life-changing event, à la The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. The 46-year-old designer Prabal Gurung, however, is releasing his memoir, Walk Like a Girl, during one of the most stable periods in his life. His recent dressings at the Met Gala—Shakira, Tessa Thompson, and Indian singer Diljit Dosanjh, among others—gained almost $5 million in media impact value, according to WWD. His brand, his foundation, and his craft are all marching along with a consistency the Nepalese designer likely craved throughout the first four decades of his life.

“When you have your head down working, you lose perspective,” he tells W ahead of the release of his memoir on May 13. “People often stop me and say, ‘Oh my god, you’ve done so much. You make it seem so easy, so glamorous.’” But Gurung insists that’s not the case. “If I’m lucky, the glamour is about five percent of what I do. The other 95 percent is pure hard work.” With Walk Like a Girl, the designer hopes to break any myths or preconceived notions that may surround him. “I want the world to know that being a fashion designer and entrepreneur is really hard.”

He also wants to tell his story—one of an immigrant who faced adversity at every step. While Gurung doesn’t mention the current political climate, his tale does seem especially prescient as the current administration continues to crack down on immigration. Instead, Gurung remains positive about his adopted country. “I want to talk about America, the beauty of it, but also the not-so-great things about it,” he says. “I critique America because I believe in her. I believe in the possibility of what America is and can be for the world.”

Gurung’s impressive sense of positivity is a constant no matter the topic. It’s what keeps the reader rooting for him throughout the book, and it’s likely what kept him going when most would understandably have given up. “It’s not that I haven't had challenging days, but I still wouldn’t trade my life for anything,” he says.

Below, Gurung discusses the difficult process of putting his story onto paper (and recording the accompanying audiobook), his love of women and feminine-leading people, and the one thing he hopes readers take away from his book.

In the book’s author’s note, you say that celebrating feminine-leading people and “their authentic, unapologetic existence” is the only way to save the world. Can you speak more to that?

There’s this idea of masculinity that is forced upon us. Ruthless success and moneymaking are celebrated, even at the cost of others’ lives. I saw that a lot growing up, in movies, and among my straight male relatives. They would have posters in their houses that said, “Tigers don’t cry.” To me, masculinity at that level seemed like a masquerade. If you look at the world and politics right now, you see a lot of this masquerading of masculinity. It’s almost like a drag show.

I was brought up by my mother, and I was always surrounded by women, so I understood the power of the matriarchy. There were conversations around success and money being important, but also accountability. In many ways, my salvation has been through women and the queer community. They’ve come through for me. I wanted to present this idea that I am here simply because I’ve been supported by feminine-living people, people of color, marginalized people. And any movement we’ve seen in the past few decades is thanks to those groups. The community is driving the conversation forward.

I want to go back to when you first began writing the book. When was that?

When I was in twelfth grade, I said to myself, “One day, I’ll write a book.” Back then, people used to always say to me, “You’re a sissy. You walk like a girl.” So, I thought, “I want to use that as the title of my book.” Then, about seven years ago, I started gathering all my writings and journals—but I didn’t know when I would publish it.

You had the title ready when you were very young.

Yes, I did. When I was growing up, there were no fashion designers in Nepal, so when I said I wanted to become one, 99 percent of people said, “It’s a good hobby, but what do you really want to do?” They told my mother I was indulging in my whimsical fantasy. I was written off. They would say I was the child nobody wanted to have, and called me “a cautionary tale.” But I knew someday I wanted to tell my story and reclaim those insults.

Was it difficult to relive some of those experiences while you were writing Walk Like a Girl? Or was it cathartic?

All of the above. All of these emotions came back—sometimes with grace, sometimes humor, sometimes anger. I wanted to make sure the book wasn’t a salacious takedown of anyone. My sister said to me, “I want the book to be unpretentious, and I want it to have grace.”

Recording the audiobook was another story. I decided to record it on my own. I don’t know why. I thought it would be a good thing. But that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It brought me back to those places, and everything was so vivid. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The events feel like they’re taking place right at the moment you’re recording, and it’s heavy. I thought I’d done all this healing and had moved on, but after recording, it was clear there was still a lot of work to be done.

Were there any stories you were nervous to put out there?

Yeah, there were a lot of things I took out. What was really difficult was discussing the relationship between my mother and father. I also never talked about the things that happened to me in boarding school to anyone besides my family and a few friends.

I don’t want this to be a victim’s book. I went through ups and downs in my life, just like everyone. But I want people to see that I’ve come out the other side.

And your nephew shot the cover, right?

Yes, he did. Initially, I didn’t want my face on the cover. I was going to commission a friend of mine to create artwork for it. I had a long chat with my sister about it, and she said to me, “How often do you see someone who looks like you owning space, being unapologetic?” The pose on the cover is a nod to Rosie the Riveter—I wanted to honor an iconic woman.

After reading the book, it’s obvious that your journey was never easy. Did you ever feel like there was a point where you could breathe a sigh of relief?

I was talking to a few friends recently—women and queer friends of color from all over the world—and we realized we’ve all always been in fight-or-flight mode. I assumed that was a solitary journey, but a lot of them also feel that way. We just have to learn to exist like that. But even in the most difficult situation, I’m someone who finds joy and optimism. I would say my biggest salvation came to me when I went to a silent meditation retreat. That was life-changing. It was the first time I realized I could breathe. I now look back at my life pre-Vipassana and post.

Is that why you decided to end the book with the retreat?

Yes. Most memoirs I read have a heroic ending—they win an award or dress Michelle Obama, something like that. I’ve experienced those highs, but what I wanted to express is that my biggest joy came from the quiet, intimate, personal moments where I really saw myself. There are so many people who make those awards and big moments come together, but I’m the only one responsible for my peace.

What do you hope people take away from the book?

It's not a book for new designers that says, “This is what you need to become successful.” All I can do is tell you what I went through, what I think my hope, optimism, and resilience have allowed me to do, and I hope you find something resonant and apply it to yourself.

But if there’s one thing I wish to tell the world through this book, it’s that true salvation, true freedom, comes from the simple act of letting go of needing validation from the outside world.