Am I the Woman Iāve Become?
CW: Transphobia, gender dysphoria, impostor syndrome
I look into the mirror and I see a woman with long, flowing hair, a DD bust, and flawless makeup. Ā She is wearing a skin-tight, white top that says ārebel girlā and her favorite ripped up jeans with her hair styled in her signature pigtails. Ā She has such a cute, mischievous grin with round cheeks and smiling eyes. Ā Everything about her is beautiful, from the way she carries herself to her inner light that shines through as I look at her. Ā That woman is mostly me.
I have actively been trying to become this woman for two and a half years, but I donāt know if Iām truly her. Ā I just look around and notice that people stare at me sometimes. Ā Like when Iām out in public and someone gives me a dirty look. Iāve even had people follow me into the bathroom and look at me through the crack of the stall door because they wanted to check my genitals: just one of the ways that other women send me this message that I donāt belong there. Ā When people address me, sometimes they slip in the word āsirā so quickly that I canāt tell for sure if they said it. Ā It just makes me think that thereās no way that I could be the woman that I think I am. Ā Because if I was that woman, would my presence really cause such a strong reaction?
But let me back up. Ā Before the bathrooms, before the pills, before both puberties Iāve been through, I was a child, a child assigned male at birth. Ā But unlike other children assigned male at birth, I wore my motherās underwear to check and see if I was a girl. Ā Unlike other children assigned male, I painfully tried to push my penis back inside myself, wishing it could simply go away. Ā I didnāt want to be perceived as a boy. Ā I desperately tried to tell myself that I could be a girl. Ā And as puberty came, it got harder. Ā When all the excessive hair appeared, I was mortified. Ā And worse, my mother believed and passed on the myth that if you shaved the hair, it came back thicker. Ā My brain was constantly screaming about this patchy, itchy, ugly mess on my face that shouldnāt be there.ļæ¼ Ā And I couldnāt exist inside myself. Ā It got to a point where everyone knew that I was uncomfortable, and they could tell that I was different, even if they didnāt know exactly how. Ā The boys I grew up with were so aggressive, so focused on violence and war, and they saw girls as objects to possess and control. Ā I rejected it allāI was gentle, sensitive, caring. Ā They teased me for crying ālike a girl.ā Ā They called me āeffeminate,ā but I wanted to be feminine. Ā They knew I was queer before I knew I was queer. Ā Hell, I was voted āmost likely to be in a horror movieā in my seventh-grade yearbookābecause I was supposed to be the monster.
What made my journey even more difficult was how easily I lied to myself. Ā Once I came to terms with the fact that I was queer when I was in high school, I was like, āOkay, I figured it out. Ā Iām done, right? Ā Right? Ā Right?ā Ā But there was just this feeling of being incomplete. Ā I had the desire to transition, but I thought it wasnāt for me. Ā I thought it was impossible. Ā My shoulders were too wide, my hands were too big, my head was too large, and I told myself that I could never be a woman: another lie, but one I told myself for a different reason.
I was terrified of transitioning and somehow failing to live up to my expectations, to the woman I always envisioned in my head. Eventually, the pain got to be too much. Ā I knew that if I didnāt transition I would kill myself by languishing in a numb existence. Ā I took my first dose of hormones, and then my whole world changed. Ā At first the changes were rapid, and I was filled with hope. Ā After many burns from laser hair removal and growing a relatively large bust I felt surely I would been seen, and seen I wasābut not in the way I hoped. Ā When I shared my concerns, I was frequently met with the sickeningly-sweet compliment of, āYou look fine, hon.ā Presently, I believe that every single trans woman really does look fine, except the one between my ears.
So, when I look at the women in the mirror and I KNOW that she is me, but that is different from FEELING like she is me. Every single time someone misgenders me it is like my womanhood is taken and she goes back to being a fantasy instead of my reality. Sometimes Iām in a space where Iām fully accepted, and people really see me, particularly two people, my partners, who love me most. In those moments, I feel like I have made it and I will never be smacked back to that sad little girl who is afraid to exist, but it seems like that isnāt meant to be. I have to struggle just to be treated like the woman I am. I still feel like Iām trapped in the dark.Ā I just have to hope that my internal identity can just shine out of me like a light.
A performance of this monologue can be viewedĀ here.