What a beautiful and difficult time to be visible and trans. These last few years, I have hidden my identity and kept it as a closely guarded secret. As a defense mechanism, as a precaution, as a means to stay hidden, and maybe more importantly, to stay safe and alive. So today I choose to be visible to a select few, for whatever it is worth. I understand that without the vulnerability of visibility, I would not be where I am today. In a way, I feel that I owe it to others to give back a piece of what strangers have given me. If I had not heard stories from others like me, I don’t think I would still be here at all.
Trans people in America are under attack. Last week, in my home state, a transwoman was murdered. Just a few states away, legislature is being passed to essentially criminalize being trans. Nationally, the Supreme Court has overturned a ban on conversion therapy. Worldwide, trans people are being excluded from organized sports. We are such a small portion of the population, but our mere existence makes up what feels like a majority of political discourse. If you’ve seen any political election ad in the past few years, you already know what I mean.
There is freedom in transitioning, but there is no longer freedom in being trans. So, time after time, against what feels rational in my own head, I make the choice to hide who I am to protect myself from the scrutiny and hate. It has always been an issue of life and death, but lately it feels scarier than ever. To give you some insight, I’d like to share some pieces of my journey with you that no one outside of my closest circle knows.
Exactly one week from today, I will be 100% post-op and post-transition. I struggle to wrap my head around it sometimes, the gravity of that. The relief in that. It’s profound. Every part of this has felt like a race against the clock. The hospital where I underwent all of my recent procedures even made the call to stop some trans related services at one point last year.
Over roughly the last year and half, I have had to be more visible. This was not out of choice, but, rather ironically, so that I can be less visible in some ways. I have undergone 5 surgeries in total, soon to be 6, 4 of which have happened in the last 18 months. I have essentially lived in the hospital and various doctor’s waiting rooms and offices for about a month total if you add up all of the admissions and appointments. I have been wounded, infected, severed, and healed. I’ve become entirely too aware of the fact that healing is not, in fact, linear, and that things often get much, much worse before they get better. You can no longer take my pulse on my left wrist, because that artery is now in my thigh. Pieces of me have been moved around like a giant, fleshy jigsaw puzzle. My body is like that of a patchwork bear or quilt. Maybe some sort of really fucked up Rubik’s cube. I’m not sure I’ve found the right analogy yet, but I digress.
I have experienced pain that is incomprehensible to most. The type that makes your body shut down and lose consciousness. Trauma upon trauma upon trauma. My radial nerve was cut entirely in half due to negligence. Reattached with a cadaver’s nerve. Part of someone else lives on in me. I lost complete function of my left hand for nearly 8 months. You don’t really know how many things in this world require the use of two hands until you only have the one. I have developed hypersensitivity along my arm and in my hand now. The slightest brush against it feels like a punch directly to my nervous system. In my own bathroom, 6 or so months after my first surgery, piece by piece, I pulled nearly two feet of undissolved barbed sutures that my body had rejected out through layers of my skin. Two surgeries later, a full month into that recovery, I had to be readmitted because I was near septic and could’ve lost my life to a viscous infection that took multiple rounds of IV and oral antibiotics to kick. I walked around for months with multiple tubes protruding from different parts of my body. I had to advocate for myself to doctors that did not care about my wellbeing, despite being paid to do so. Over, and over, and over again, I had to advocate to be treated correctly. To be treated the same as anyone else. To have things that everyone else is born with, things that people take for granted daily.
I am covered in too many scars to count, all varying shapes, colors, and sizes. I had to relearn how to walk and use my hand. I had to relearn how to shower, how to take care of myself, how to use the restroom. People will call that crazy. They say it every day, and for every one person who says it aloud, there are tens, if not hundreds, of thousands more nodding their heads in agreement. In some ways, they’re right. I wouldn’t wish what I endured on the worst of my enemies. There were many nights I asked why I even started this whole process to begin with. I’ll tell you one thing for sure though: I refuse to be affected by bullshit propaganda and hatred of people who will never understand what it feels like to truly love oneself. People who have no sense of self outside of political alignments and dogwhistles, who are angry at the mere concept of me existing. Despite the fact that if they saw me on the street or in a men’s room, they would have absolutely no idea that I had transitioned.
After all of this, I have never been happier or felt more whole. I have never felt more comfortable in who I am. I have never been more proud of the person I am. I would do it again in every single lifetime if I had to. All of the pain, suffering, and uncertainty.
What a beautiful thing it is to know exactly who you are, and what you are willing to do to be that person. I have done only what is true to me, regardless of outside influence or opinion. There is magic in that, and no one can tell me otherwise. No one can take that away from me. I simply will not allow it.
TDOV has been tricky for me since I stopped outwardly expressing my identity and started making an active effort to conceal it instead. I do not regret that. I have made the right choices for me, and really that is what transitioning is all about at its core. Regardless of that, I do believe that, this year especially, it is important to remind at least a few people that I am here, as queer as ever, and that, more importantly, transitioning saves lives. Gender affirming care saves lives. I know because it saved mine! It continues to save mine. It is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and it is an honest to god miracle. A marvel of modern medicine.
I always thought that the idea of waking up in a body that felt like mine was just a far reached fantasy. At times, a delusion. Even inconceivable to a younger me. I know that it is still inconceivable to many of my trans brothers and sisters. Nowadays, I mostly wake up feeling at home in my skin. I no longer have to unfocus my eyes and use a steamy, fogged up bathroom mirror to envision the idea of the body that was in my head. It has not been easy, but I cannot understate how worth it it has been. Every surgery, every injection, every gel pack, every complication, every scar, all brought me closer to this version of me that I can enjoy and admire. I am in awe of who I have become and the strength that it has taken to get here. I no longer live in fear that I will be trapped in a vessel that does not feel like my own.
I do not love being trans, and I resent how scary it feels in the present time and administration, but I am so glad that I’m still here. I resent how much headspace transitioning has taken up, these past two years especially, but there is so much relief in knowing that it will all be over. That I have made leaps and bounds to be the person I always saw myself as. To be the “dream boy” I used to draw in my sketchbooks. I didn’t understand that I was creating a version of myself, breathing life into something I had no real understanding of yet. I am so immensely glad that I kept fighting.
I am blessed with this unique perspective, these unique experiences, and this unique joy. I am privileged. Few will understand, but that has always been true. I don’t do it for anyone else though, this has all been for me. Perhaps my most selfish act, but the one that I am the most proud of. I do not love being trans, but I am proud to be trans and visible today. There is hope.
Joy will arrive. You are becoming what you always wanted to be. There is life to be lived without the heavy burdens of fear and doubt and shame.
And to little Me: You did it. You made it. You don’t have to lose sleep staring at the ceiling anymore. You don’t need to be afraid or uncertain. You made the right choices. Everyone still loves you. You’re still worthy of love. Even you love you now. You live for yourself, and you want to be here, you want more days instead of less. Some people did think less of you. You lost some folks. Not everyone understood, not everyone approved. Not everyone could reach acceptance. You did fight through hate, people say some nasty things, but you never cared about the opinions of others anyway. If that weren’t true, you never would have begun.
Your dad got on board with everything faster than you ever could’ve imagined. He hugged you so tight when you showed him your new driver’s license with his middle name as yours. He once made a toast just to you at New Years. Your mom took care of you through everything, she’s still your best friend and your most trusted confidant. You will always be her baby, and she will always be your biggest cheerleader. You are a brother, an uncle, a son, a boyfriend. Someday, a husband and a father. You are “sir” at the bank and on the phone, at restaurants and stores. People tell you they love your name, sometimes it’s hard not to say “Thank you, I chose it myself!”. You found a girl that saw past all of it, that only ever knew this version of you, and never blinked when you told her about your past. One who supported you and tended to your wounds when you couldn’t, who helped you feel seen and understood. You have friends that know, and you have some that have no idea. You learned it doesn’t really matter that much. They love you just the same, and you love them.
The significance is yours and yours alone. Everything was and is on your terms. You chose your own journey. Not everyone gets it, and some never will, even if you exhaust every last breath you have trying to explain it to them, your time is better spent on those that don’t require an explanation from you. You have created something to be proud of. Something to live for. A means to enjoy life for what it is, to have gratitude for the blessings that surround you. To take in the world around you without the heavy burdens of fear and doubt. You are a shining light of hope to others who stand now in the shoes you once wore. You helped people come to terms with who they were and what they wanted. You advocated, and someday you will continue to advocate, even louder, but maybe less angry. Thank you for sticking around. You made all of the right choices. When people tell you you’re brave, that you’re resilient, you can still roll your eyes, but it isn’t untrue.
🐛🦋 Happy TDOV. Remember to love one another and always know that you are worthy of love, too. Dreams really do come true, you hold the key to set yourself free. Thank you for reading.
