I'm going to go ahead and say, right at the top, transitioning is the best thing I have ever done. But this is a science and research based blog, so I will of course provide evidence for how I might have come to such a conclusion. I have to maintain my credibility of course. And I’m going to do it with FLASHBACKS!!!!!! (air horn noises)
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Elementary school. I’m paying attention as my teacher talks about some subject or other. Possibly math, maybe history. We only had one teacher for all subjects at that age. She calls on me and asks me to read something on the board. The characters are small, and I can’t identify them without squinting. This is normal for me, so I don’t notice my teacher’s questioning looks.
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Elementary school. I’m seven years old, watching Disney Channel on our family TV, a chunky Magnavox big enough to crush a child my size to death. This almost happened once when I climbed the entertainment center like a monkey. I’m watching one of my favorite shows. The boy main character is dressed up as a girl by the girl main character. This is presented as a hilarious punishment. Afterwards, I think about how it would be fun if it happened to me.
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High school. My hair is long, past my shoulders. I have refused to cut it, despite my parents repeatedly saying I should. It’s not styled well - it’s basically a frizzy mullet. I know nothing about proper hair care besides shampooing it daily. The other kids at school make fun of me because it looks ridiculous. I ignore everyone. I don’t want to cut my hair off. It’s my hair, and it took a long time to get to this point.
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High school. My hair is short now. The cut I got isn’t bad. More importantly, it’s easy to manage. It feels pointless to put too much effort into my appearance. I’m not a huge fan of the reflection looking back at me anyway.
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College. I have a crush on a girl. Multiple girls. There’s plenty of time for crushes in four years of college. I’m never able to picture myself with them in a way that feels real. I think this is normal.
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Sixth grade. I’m in the midst of an acne breakout. I’m always in the midst of an acne breakout. I have no idea how to care for my skin. I’m not even interested in it. Taking care of it means looking in the mirror. I don’t know or care what it’s doing to my face.
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I’m in college. I don’t like looking at pictures of myself. I don’t like seeing my face. It looks wrong.
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Elementary school. It’s dark out. My family is slowly driving through our neighborhood. My parents ask me to read another street sign. After some squinting and driving closer, I get it. I can’t read the next one. The letters are just blurs.
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Third grade. The class is standing in line for field day, ready to storm the field and have our day of play. I’m talking to the kid in front of me and am being annoying. He turns, and calls me gay. I’ve never heard the term before (or not in any way my child brain would recognize). I ask what “gay” is, and he says it’s a boy that likes boys. I gather that it’s supposed to be an insult, but I think accepting insults is funny, so I just own it. I don’t know what it means.
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High school. Gay is the preferred insult for most boys at our school, and has been for years. There is no punchline that lands as hard, and it is the primary weapon in every boy’s arsenal.
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Ninth grade. I’m in Biology class. The teacher is younger, more casual with her students. Apparently, one of her students, an upperclassman, really liked her class (or had a crush on her) and he likes to come in and sit and talk loudly about whatever he finds interesting. I don’t know where he’s supposed to be. I don’t know why she lets him come in so often.
Today he brings up one of his former classmates, who graduated last year, or the year before. The student was gay, very gay. In our school, this is hot gossip, and worthy of speculation and ridicule. He’s filling in our teacher on the student’s life post high school. He salaciously tells the teacher, and the rest of us, that “he” is now a “she.” The teacher tries to return to her class, but her face can’t help but display how unsettled this revelation has made her.
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High school. I have a fellow student who is known for being very gay. I don’t have any classes with him. I have never talked with him. But I am well aware that he is gay. He is always the source of jokes whenever he’s around. Today, he has a piece of tape over his mouth. It reads “silence for gay rights.” This invites scorn and shame. I feel uncomfortable in a way I can’t describe every time I see him.
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College. Classes aren’t in, and my family is visiting with our relatives. While we are there, two older acquaintances of the family, a man and a woman, come by to say hi. I have never met either of them before or since. I end up sitting near them.
The man recounts a hilarious story to the woman. He tells her about a guy that used to live in their town, likely a child of a friend. That guy went off to live in the city, and became a “he-she.” That’s the end of the joke. The woman thinks this is hilarious, and comments on these weird kids. I think it was very rude, but I stay silent..
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Junior High. I’m spending time with an older relative. I’m talking about my school, and about the world. In my description, I mention the existence of gay people. They immediately jump on this, and tell me, “Don’t you go around them!” I find the forcefulness of this odd.
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High school. One of my friends of the past few years approaches me and wants to tell me something. He’s gay. I’m confused. I show I’m confused. I later text him and tell him that I was caught off guard and wasn’t expecting it. He’s really discouraged by my less-than-supportive reaction. We don’t talk as much after.
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Pre-school. I’m very afraid of the dark, and I sleep with a night light. One of my older cousins hears about this. He comments on it, mentioning that he has heard that sleeping with a night light is bad for your eyesight. I think my eyesight is perfectly fine.
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Junior High. My friend and I are walking around in the woods outside of his place like we often do. One of us asks, “if you could be a girl for a day, would you do it?” I answer that of course I would try it, it’s just a day, could be fun. He jokes that he wants to try sex as a girl.
He doesn’t bring it up again. I regularly think about how fun it would be to transform. Just for a day.
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Junior High. I’m at the mall with my parents. We’re walking around the clothing store, looking for new clothes for me. As we walk to the much smaller men’s section, I get a good look at the women’s section. Not for the first time, I am drawn to these clothes. I hide my look, and join my parents in picking out some of the much less interesting clothing from the men’s section.
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College. I read a post on someone’s Tumblr or Reddit about the shared backgrounds and personality quirks of members who are LGBT. I identify with a large portion of the experiences mentioned. I consider this, but decide it’s just a coincidence, and I’m just learning to be a good ally. I’m obviously not LGBT.
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Adulthood. I’m carrying an Amazon package to my room, careful not to show it off to my roommates. I lock my door before I open it. It’s a skirt. I wear it around my room, not outside. It’s too scandalous to wear outside.
Weeks later, I am overcome with guilt for owning such scandalous clothing instead of the boy clothes I should be wearing. I throw the skirt out. It’s not the first piece of clothing I’ve thrown out.
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Adulthood. I’m on a first date with a girl I really like. She tells me she’s bisexual. I feel relieved and drawn to her. I tell her that I identify as a man, but I’ve explored thoughts related to my gender expression before, even if they went nowhere.
Many of the women I have dated have been queer and/or bisexual. I think this is a funny coincidence.
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Adulthood. Two of my friends talk about being bisexual. They ask me if I am too. I confide that I have explored my queerness in the past, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m obviously not queer or LGBT.
They don’t see that I am trying to convince myself as well.
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2021. I’m rapidly approaching my 27th birthday. We’ve just recently escaped a year of lockdown. Social unrest is rising and the climate emergency is getting worse and worse. I can’t help thinking about the future of the human race. About what we will be in the future, after climate change does its thing. Will there be anything left? Will it even be worth living in?
It all feels meaningless, and I am floating, directionless. It’s hard to be hopeful for the future. I’ve watched as institutions I have known my whole life seem to lose credibility and value. I see people I know and trust espouse messages of hate and intolerance. I have seen scores of people dying while others denied that there was anything to worry about.
It feels as if we are destined to fade and be forgotten. I wonder if this is for the best. Nothing seems to matter.
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2021. I haven’t felt any emotion in over a month. I’m floating, an amorphous being that simply exists in a space. I talk to family, friends, roommates, It doesn’t help. I’m desperate to leave this.
I spend a great deal of time building puzzles on the coffee table in the apartment living room. I’m sure my roommates are annoyed with my takeover, but they don’t say anything about it.
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Elementary school. I’m at the optometrist’s office. I’ve just tried on my first pair of glasses. I put them on and the difference is incredible.
Before this, I thought my vision was normal, that it was how everyone saw the world. But now, for the first time in my life I can see my surroundings. I can read signs, see details. I have clarity. I can see what I have been missing all along.
It takes some effort to get used to wearing glasses everyday, but eventually, I get used to it, and I’m never able to go back to how it was before.
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2021. I’m running at the park, a popular running route for many in my neighborhood. I like running. It’s meditative. It lets me think.
I’ve moved past my depressive episode, leaving it in the last week. I’m feeling better, I’ve found my emotions again. I’m healing, and I’m thinking.
I think about my inner self, and the inner truths I have repressed to this point. I think about my explorations into queerness. I come back to the question that I have flirted with a few times and been afraid to truthfully ask.
Am I trans?
And for just a minute, just for the next small amount of time, I decide to let myself answer “yes,” just to see how it feels. Just to try it out, prove it’s not who I am. I’ll be trans for just a minute.
I let it in.
There’s no earth-shattering revelation. My brain doesn’t fall apart. There’s no explosion, no crazy musical number, no fireworks. It’s much simpler than that. My mind simply states, “yes, this is right. About time.”
And for the first time, I can see.
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2021. I’m at Target. I want some new clothes, and I figure I should start somewhere inexpensive and easy to look through.
I buy a couple of tops. Some shorts. For the first time in my life, I’m excited about new clothes.
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2022. A friend of mine has invited me to an event in Brooklyn. This friend is one of the few I’m out to. I get ready, dress in androgynous clothing. I look in the mirror, see my appearance which is still mostly masculine.
For a second, my hair falls in a way, a particular spot, and just for that second, I see her. Me.
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2022. I’m at the doctor’s office. It’s been months since I’ve set this appointment, and I’m finally here. I enter, and I tell the doctor that I am trans and want to start hormone therapy. I expect this to lead to more waiting, more tests and determinations. She offers to fill out a prescription for that day. I can hardly contain my disbelief.
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2022. I’m at home, medication in hand. I’m scared, scared to take these pills, scared to start the treatment. What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t get the results I want? What if I hate it? What if this is a big mistake?
I remind myself that this is not irreversible, and based on everything I’ve learned, I should know quickly if it isn’t right for me.
I take my first dose.
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2022. It’s been months. I have not missed a dose. My body has been feeling more and more normal, like it’s finally approaching what it should have been all along.
I look at the small changes in the mirror, and I catch a glimpse of her. I’ve seen her more often now. Never for very long, but she’s always around.
I’ve figured out her name. My name. Chloe.
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2023. I’m at the store, buying a purse for the first time. The cashier refers to me as “miss” when asking if I find everything okay. I try to hide my smile when I tell him I did, when I felt the jolt of electricity from the world.
This is not the first time I’ve been addressed this way, but it’s the first where the person speaking didn’t immediately apologize and assume they were wrong.
I glide home.
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2024. I’m thirty. I’ve gotten home from a haircut. I look in the mirror. I’m excited to look in the mirror. I look at the hair, how it frames my face, accentuates my features. I smile at myself. At Chloe.
—
I debated about adding more anecdotes to this, more insights and events from my life from before and after I came out. I decided to pare it down to avoid too much repetition. Instead I focused on a few snapshots, enough to give a timeline to the events without being too confusing.
I grew up in a conservative portion of the country. LGBT rights were not accepted or widespread, and being gay was the subject of gossip, ridicule, and scorn among large portions of the community, whether it was at school, around adults, or even in our media. This is not to say that every single person displayed massive amounts of homophobia, but to state that this was normalized and a constant.
As part of this environment, trans rights were not only not accepted, but the existence of trans people was barely acknowledged. As a child, I was not aware of the concepts of gender dysphoria or euphoria. In my limited worldview, I was shown people who were crossdressers, play-acting as another gender, giving a performance. I was not really aware of the concept of being trans until college, and then I put it off.
I sometimes think about what it would have been like if I had known earlier. How I would have handled myself, or dealt with the sentiments of those around who disagreed. But I will never know. Instead, it only existed as a nagging thought at the back of mind, a suppressed self, one that I barely acknowledged, and didn’t even know to question. For 27 years, I ignored my own self, because I thought that was how to be normal. I thought it was normal to disassociate, to dislike your face in the mirror, to regularly think about being the opposite gender.
At 27, I realized I was wrong. I found who I was. I felt things I never had before. Excitement, genuine excitement for my own personal future. Concrete goals for my own self and life. For the first time, I learned to love myself. And with the promise of modern healthcare, I had the opportunity to see myself as I should have been all along.
Transitioning has been the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.
10/10, would recommend (you know, if you’re trans).
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I have had the idea for this post for a while. I spent a lot of time deciding how I wanted to approach this, how I wanted to present these feelings and my experiences. I debated against it, as this is such as personal topic, and I usually try to go with a more professional approach on this website.
But.
Last week, our country decided they wanted Donald Trump back in the White House. They decided to give control of Congress to Republicans, and ensure Republican control of the Supreme Court for generations to come. The party ran on intolerance and hate, with a large amount of time spent targeting the trans community, including spending millions of dollars on anti-trans campaign ads in the month leading up to the election. Republicans have made it clear that they are going after trans children, gender affirming healthcare, and “gender ideology.”
A few days ago, our country decided that it was okay for Donald Trump to be president again.
I want to be clear - this will result in great harm, and death, to trans people in the U.S. and around the world as we see many countries following our example of empowering right-wing extremists. I can’t help but be scared for my future, but the futures of my friends, and family.
The goal of this is to remove “transgenderism” from everyday life. To treat us as an outgroup and act like we don’t exist. To say that we are sinful creatures who deserve nothing more than to be excised from a life along our cis peers.
I’m posting this now, because I will be damned if I try to hide my identity and life because some pathetic men and women want to exert control on those different from themselves so they can retain some feeling of power in their own lives. Trans people have fought hard to get to the level of visibility and acceptance we have today, and while we still have a long way to go, we have made so much progress. I’m not going back, and I will not hide myself. Being trans is not my entire identity, but it is an important aspect of who I am. I am proud, proud of being trans, proud of being a woman, and proud of supporting every other person who is trans. And anyone who has an issue with that can kindly fuck right off.
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