Being trans is spending years becoming the person you were always meant to be, only to discover that your heart is still capable of finding entirely new ways to hurt.
I leave for the United States on Tuesday.
Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited, and I am. I really am. It's a huge trip, a huge step, a huge adventure. But every time I think about boarding that plane, there's this quiet grief sitting in my chest.
Because I'm leaving without ever getting to hold my girlfriend.
Long-distance relationships are cruel in uniquely creative ways. I know the shape of her laugh. I know how her voice changes when she's tired. I know the little pauses she takes when she's thinking. I know what she dreams about, what makes her angry, what makes her smile.
And yet I've never gotten to brush a strand of hair from her face.
I've never gotten to wrap my arms around her and feel her melt into me.
I've never gotten to kiss her goodbye.
The yearning is unbearable sometimes. Not just romantic longing, but physical absence. Wanting someone so badly that every airport, every empty seat, every sunset feels like evidence that the universe misplaced the two of you.
I want her. I miss her. I ache for her.
And on Tuesday I'll be crossing an ocean while carrying that ache with me.
One day we'll finally meet, and I know the first hug is going to destroy me completely.
Until then, I remain a creature powered entirely by caffeine, estrogen, and yearning.
