After years of thinking about it, after nervously seeking my mom’s approval, and after a particularly nasty bought of dysphoria, on my break at work, I walked into a tiny little self-proclaimed queer run establishment.
There were books for sale, and art, and patches, and buttons, all the things that have become so standard to the experience of scrolling through tumblr, the aesthetics of the “Openly lgbtq+ college student”. I indulged, looking at silly little cat stickers while the person at the register had to run out to move their car.
In the back of this tiny shop (the size of a gas station bathroom) is a little change room, and hangers. 4 Different styles of binders, a small rack of gaff panties in various cuts next to them.
Despite my conviction, my obvious androgyny, and the person’s “She/they” pin on their shirt, I could barely croak out that I wanted to try on a binder. Her face, despite the mask, lit up, and she explained the selection to me. As they were handing me different sizes to try on, they said “This is a big step, but also not a step at all. It’s just clothes, and if it doesn’t suit you, you just don’t put it on.”
I cried in the change room. I suddenly felt like I was actually looking at myself after years of the mirrors being wrong. Which felt crazy, because I had convinced myself for a long time my dysphoria wasn’t that bad. That other people needed medical transitioning more than I did, that other trans youth needed the clothing exchange program more than I did, that I could go my whole life half-closeted.
Things have changed a lot.