like once you realize you dont have to be trans binary
the world is open frr
like for cis people they see me as a transman, which ia good and fine and i pass well but lwk its gotten to a point where i feel like im too cis presenting? and i dont like being man binary, i thibk trans masc makes more sense but honestly being feminine and things is really fun too..
idk ive realized a lot i dont really like labels i find them more boxing me in than anything, thats why i call myself queer bc it sounds right and doesnt have enough boxed in
like genderfluid doesnt sound like a rigjt label to me
maybe gender queer? smt about it rings a little better but still
idk its fun i like using it pronouns esp bc it makes me feel both less binary and less human and i like that :)
idk i kinda vibe w no pronouns sometimes but also i want people to try using a lot og pronouns for me too so i can see how they feel again
There’s a kind of fight I’ve been in for years. Quiet. Constant. Largely invisible to the world.
Some of that fight has been about desire. What I want. Why I want it. And where those wants even come from.
For a long time, I lived inside a marriage that left me small. My sexuality, my softness, even my sense of worth, became part of how I degraded myself. Not because I wanted to, but because I had absorbed the belief that pain was what I deserved. I used those parts of me against myself and called it control, because admitting how lost I was felt worse than clinging to punishment.
I built a life of compromises because I had convinced myself that’s what I deserved. I let outside voices chip away at me until I couldn’t tell where their judgment ended and my self-worth began. And when I finally started naming what I wanted—gentleness, beauty, care—I didn’t trust any of it.
I thought maybe those wants were just scars reshaped into cravings. Some were. I fought them hard. Because some of them weren’t born from joy or freedom, they were built in the face of survival and shaped by harm. Some may stick with me forever, etched too deeply into my psyche to fully shed.
But instead of rejecting them outright, I’m learning to see them clearly. To ask whether they’re still hurting me, or whether I can reclaim them as part of something healthier, something mine. I don’t need to throw everything away. I need to know what still belongs. Over the last six months, I’ve been quietly testing that through the smallest of things. In doing so, I’ve begun to feel something shifting. Not abruptly. But undeniably.
Not all at once. Not loudly. But in those small choices, I’ve started to see just how deep the conflict runs—and how much I still long for softness in a world that has always rewarded hardness.
This story isn’t a confession or a revelation, it’s a slow, deliberate reclamation, not from others, but within myself.
The earbuds came first. And they shouldn’t have mattered.
But they did.
Because by the time I sat staring at that Amazon page, something inside me was already unraveling. Years of self-denial, masked desire, and learned restraint were beginning to loosen their hold. I wasn’t just choosing a color. I was confronting a wall I’d built brick by brick over the years. The typical choices were black and white. And the safe choice, the one I would’ve made without thinking, was black. There was a third option. A light blue. Not quite sky blue, but soft, subtle, and shiny. The color I was drawn to felt honest in a way I couldn’t explain.
The anxiety wasn’t rational. It crept in as hesitation, shallow breath, the urge to click black and move on. Safe. Invisible. Normal.
I asked myself questions I didn’t want to answer. Is this too much? Am I trying to be something I’m not? Will people see this and assume something about me, I’m not ready to face myself? Will they be right? And underneath all that, one question lingered. Am I allowed to want this?
The hardest part wasn’t choosing the light blue. It was daring to believe I could choose at all.
Next were my nails.
Matte Ash lavender. Not bold. Not flashy. A quiet shift on the surface, but a quiet storm within.
The truth is, I never had the desire to paint my nails until long after I had become deeply entrenched in a cycle of self-erasure. That desire didn’t grow from freedom or playfulness. It was seeded in humiliation. In the media I consumed when I was at my lowest, the fantasies were meant to emasculate and degrade. I internalized it. I made it part of how I endured inside a broken life. I told myself I liked it because it hurt. Because I deserved it.
Was I reclaiming something, or was I just repeating harm? Was this self-expression or another echo of self-erasure? I fought with them in silence, circling around shame and survival and something that looked like want. But when the polish dried, those questions didn’t matter the same way. They had already done their work.
And now, I don’t ask them anymore.
Only one person has asked me about them. A friend in his late seventies. I told him I painted them to go to Pride, and because I envied the ease with which others seemed to move in their own expression. He just nodded and said, “Cool.” That was it. And somehow, it meant everything. He asked if I did them myself or had them done. I said I paid someone. That was the end of it.
But I still find myself waiting. Waiting for someone to make a big deal. Waiting for the judgment I’ve trained myself to expect. And at the same time, I’m amazed I didn’t back out. I found a thread of confidence in myself and followed it. That I didn’t make a public declaration or post a picture:I didn’t tell anyone the day I did it. Because it wasn’t for them; it was for me.
What helped most came before. A friend reminded me of the Dao. She called me Pooh in the gentlest, most grounding way, referencing The Tao of Pooh. Maybe, she said, I didn’t need to fight every question. Perhaps I could just be.
So I’m trying.
Trying to let the struggle quiet itself. Trying to live what feels right.
But I have kept them painted. Because it was the first time I felt a hint of choice inside a story I used to believe had already been written for me.
That feeling has quieted. As I settle into the Dao, I’ve stopped questioning the desire. I have it. It doesn’t cause harm. And more often than not, it feels good. Some days, there’s still a hum of doubt in the background. But mostly, I’m just living it now.
Then came the wallet.
By then, the quiet had settled into my bones. Just last night, I bought a burgundy leather wallet. It hasn’t even arrived yet, and still, I know exactly why I chose it.
For the last week, I had been researching wallets—scrolling past minimalist designs made of plastic, webbing, and metal. Cold. Hard. EDC-style things that looked tactical and sharp. Wallets made to feel rugged, impersonal, even aggressive. And I couldn’t picture enjoying a single one of them.
Then I stumbled on leather wallets made in Arizona by Lost Dutchman Leather. Suddenly, something shifted. These weren’t soft in a traditionally feminine way, but they carried a warmth that still felt grounded. I could already picture the feel of it. Supple leather, molded over time by the shape of my body and touched by the patina of daily use. I could smell it. Its warmth lived in my imagination. And I hadn’t even received it yet.
It settled over me like breath returning. The world isn’t black and white. And neither are my desires. I don’t have to categorize every choice as hard or soft, feminine or masculine, safe or deviant.
The wallet reminded me of that.
It brought relief. Because I’m learning a new language. Back then, my mind felt knotted, tangled in binaries of feminine or masculine, soft or hard. I didn’t know there was another way to be. But with time, I’m beginning to understand that I can be soft and still be me. That not every choice is about pushing the envelope. The wallet is an excellent example of that. It wasn’t about making a statement. It was about choosing what felt right for me.
These three small things… they’re not small at all, not to me.
What parts of me have I buried to be acceptable? How much of my past was performance? What do I actually want—and why was I so afraid of wanting it?
I used to define myself by opposites. Feminine or masculine. Soft or hard. Never both. The Dao has taught me better. That duality isn’t the only language. That the world moves in harmony, not opposition. That I can be soft and still carry strength. What feels right doesn’t have to be justified. It only has to be lived.
I used to look at people who moved freely in their expression and feel a pulse of envy. Not because I wanted to copy them, but because I wanted to feel that free in my own skin. I still feel that sometimes. But I also know I’m closer now than I’ve ever been.
What I do know is that each of these small choices helped me breathe a little easier, even through the anxiety and self-doubt. They didn’t silence the internal war, but they reminded me that I can choose. I don’t have to keep carrying everything I once believed made me strong.
Softness isn’t the opposite of strength. It’s the strength I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
These three small things are the start of something bigger. Not a transformation, but a return. A remembering. A reclamation of the parts of me I thought I had to leave behind.
And the fight to get here is the proof that it matters.
I don’t have to push. I don’t have to arrive. The Dao isn’t about conquering or defining. It’s about letting go of the struggle to control what already wants to flow.
And I’m starting to believe I can move through the world in a way that feels open, steady, and real. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But that’s the way of it, isn’t it?
I'm still dropping hints. I've convinced my parents to let me cut my hair nice and short. I'm also trying to just generally drop hints.
Me: "I don't like makeup."
Mom: "Oh c'mon, makeup never hurt a girl!"
Me: "I'm just going to cover up some of these blemishes. I'm not doing eyeshadow or lipstick or anything." (I rarely do this. Today I felt self conscious about my face and decided to just hide some of the red spots and such. I think it's been over a year since I've touched makeup honestly.)
Mom: "Oh come on. Girls need makeup for two this: getting a job and getting a boy!"
Me: ...
Ah, yes, the only reason women wear makeup: to get jobs and attract boys. Of course.
I really just hate makeup. I hate looking feminine. I hate being identified as a girl. I much rather be "other" and not feel so confined and pressured. If someone's attraction to me is based on whether or not I wear makeup, I don't want them. I don't wear makeup. I don't like long hair. I don't like dresses. Everything feminine I hate. Well, I hate it on it on me. I just don't want to be female. I don't want to feel such pressure and force to look pretty. It's so suffocating... I've never been a girl. Anyone who's known me would know that. I rejected every typically feminine thing. As a kid I would go play war with all the boys instead of house with the girls. I just didn't cate about gender or the binary. Girls can't do math? Cool, I'm going to finish AP Calc II and pass with a 5 out of 5. Girls can't be better than guys in the STEM field? Cool, I'll go become the best Software Engineer. I just never cared about the binary system, the stereotypes. I've always leaned toward more typically masculine things. If I could wear a suit or a dress I'd pick the suit.
I don't know if this is a rant about sterotypes or what. But to all my afab people, you don't have to be feminine. You don't have to identify as female. You don't have to follow sterotypes. Be yourself. If that means being nonbinary or demigender, that's great! If it means being gender nonconforming, that's awesome! Just do what makes you happy.
love 13&graham's duo vibe of 'the only two adults here' which is really only there on graham's side bc 13 does Not think of him as in charge with her, does Not think of herself as an adult, and Is one of the kittens to be herded also
