A lot of change has occurred since last I wrote. Some good, some bad. A lot of it somewhere in between I would say. I think that’s likely the nature of change and growth—it hurts like hell, but God the view gets better as you go, doesn’t it?
My mom moved away from us a week ago. It was a culmination of ugliness and differences that made us living in the same household unhealthy for us both. Up until a week ago, she also would not call me my name or use my appropriate pronouns. I understood her choice, although it deeply wounded me. I spent many hours wondering what a future would look like with us living together. Would she still be misgendering me when I eventually changed my name legally? When I had a beard? When I married and became a father? How could I weather that kind of torture for years on end if a couple months was already getting to me?
But miraculous things do occasionally occur, and as God is prone to do, He worked a miracle. My mom called me my name the day she left. She used my pronouns. And somehow, she hasn’t stopped.
I know she doesn’t agree still. She believes gender dysphoria and transgenderism are mental illnesses. In her eyes, I cannot help my affliction. To be clear, I agree on some levels. I did not choose to be transgender, and it certainly effects my mental health in often negative ways. However, I also think I was created this way—fearfully and wonderfully made to be just as I am. I think God makes a spectrum of individuals and I happen to be just a hair off from the norm, but that’s nothing to apologize for, nor is it something I should hide…It’s just who I am.
But she’s okay with who I am now, and her acceptance is nearly as good as agreement. It means she still wants me in her life and that she’s willing to get uncomfortable to understand me. This gesture, this olive branch extended to me…it gives me hope that we can still weather this.
In other news, I started T on Monday of this week. It’s been three days. I’m overjoyed. I left the doctor’s office with a band-aid stuck to my thigh and my hands still shaking, and I drove to work laughing. I drove to work with tears in my eyes because someone was seeing my struggle beside me—and suddenly, amazingly, someone was outstretching their hand to help me. It was a bit like being marooned in the middle of the ocean and suddenly finding a bit of driftwood to hold on to.
Relief. Exquisite, blissful relief. And so much joy I wanted to scream it at the top of my lungs. My brother and I baked a cake to celebrate the occasion. We watched television and ate cake and I kept looking at the band-aid over and over. It was real. Truly, astonishingly…real.
Aside from the obvious celebrations, I find myself constantly checking the mirror, wondering when my first patch of hair (or acne) will sprout, and I am acutely aware of every change in my body—hunger, temperature, mood, appearance, etc. It’s silly to the look for change so quickly, I know. T takes weeks and months (even years!) to really take full effect…but I can’t seem to help it. I’m a kid on Thanksgiving eager to unwrap his Christmas presents early.
Patience is a virtue I am learning slowly. It takes time to get the medical care I need. It takes time to come out (to myself and others). It takes time to acquaint myself with a new reality. It takes time to really let myself be comfortable with my identity, out in the open! Change is a cycle of slow and fast, slow and fast. It takes time.
But time is all I have right now, and I’m learning to lean into it. Ready, set, rest.
