Radiant Glow
Transsexual people hear so many incorrect and bad-faith arguments:
“This is just a phase.”
“You’re confused. You’re imagining things.”
“You’re looking for attention.”
“You’re influenced by social media or peer pressure. It’s just a trend.”
“You’re mentally ill.”
“Changing your body is unnatural; gender is just an expression of whatever your body’s sex happens to be.”
“You’re confusing the children.”
“This goes against God’s plan!”
“You’ll regret it later and detransition!”
But it’s not just transphobic people. Some of these objections also come from friends and family—people who, in good faith, don’t want us to suffer. And I at least appreciate that sentiment when it’s coming from a place of love rather than hate or political theater.
What people don’t seem to realize, though, is how much we already question ourselves—before ever daring to utter a single word to anyone—how much we doubt and second-guess everything before deciding to transition.
I tiptoed into this, and I was ready to turn back at every point along the way. I wanted to turn back.
Nobody would decide to be transsexual if they had a choice. It’s expensive. You lose family and friends. Dating goes from hard to ridiculous. You face discrimination at every turn. Harassment. Often physical and sexual assault. And now there’s the relentless political scapegoating on top of it all. Where do I opt out of that dumpster fire, please?
“How do you really know?” I hear someone asking.
My response to this question is always to ask, “Are you right or left-handed? How are you sure? When did you figure it out? Is this handedness due to the way your body is or the way your brain is?”
Figuring out that your gender (brain) doesn’t match your body is a lot like discovering you’re left-handed. As a left-handed person, I can say this. Growing up, everyone wants you to use your right hand. I even had a teacher hit my hand with a ruler until my mom found out and stood up for me at school. After that, my writing and my schoolwork improved by leaps and bounds. I just write much better with my left hand. And that’s because of some way that my brain is, not because I made a choice to be different.
This brain/body mismatch starts to become apparent in childhood. And when it happens, if your family isn’t supportive, like mine wasn’t, you try to shove the gender dysphoria away and hide from it forever. I remember coloring my nails with crayons one night while the family watched TV. I would have been in the second grade at the time. I don’t remember what prompted me to do it. I just thought it was pretty. When my dad saw what I was doing, he brutally shamed me in front of everyone. I never made the mistake of doing anything feminine (in public) again—at least until I surprised them “out of the blue” at the age of 18.
When I first came out, my mom used to say, “There was never any indication of this with you!” She’s very accepting today, has been for decades now, and we have a great relationship. But with all the recent politics, this came up again recently. I asked her, “Didn’t you tell me when I was growing up that, no matter what, I should never tell you that I was gay?”
“Yes, I did,” she responded.
“Why did you feel the need to say that to a normal child?”
Mom isn’t the type to go speechless during an argument or a discussion, but she didn’t have a quick answer to that one.
The problem isn’t just the gender dysphoria or not fitting into a certain gender role. For me, anyway, it was about how I related to other people. How I related to guys was wrong. How I related to girls was wrong. Because of that, I didn’t make friends easily. Everything felt uncomfortable.
After I transitioned, and after I grew out of that ugly-duckling phase, I went from being a depressed recluse to someone who enjoyed being with other people and who made friends easily. Who had a social life.
In hindsight, transitioning was absolutely the right thing to do. But the idea of it had still been terrifying, and with good reason. The struggle that was in store for me was clear to see. Second-guessing yourself is a healthy and normal response. Fear is also a healthy and normal response. I tried hard to be “normal” before finally transitioning and putting myself through the trials and tribulations that were to follow.
Before I had my “bottom” surgery, I’d say I was 99 percent certain that it was the right choice. But there was a little voice in my head saying, "You need to be really sure about this…" It’s funny. I appreciate how strange the idea of gender reassignment surgery or gender-affirming surgery is for most people. But it was weirder for me; imagine having to actually do it.
When I woke from surgery, the first thing I did was reach down between my legs. “Am I going to be horrified?” No. An immediate sense of relief washed over me, like a weight lifted from my shoulders. I had that same feeling later when I used the bathroom for the first time. I had always sat down to use the bathroom, even during the two or so years before fully transitioning. But this time, I didn't have to nudge anything into place, and everything felt normal at last.
For a solid month after surgery, I walked around with a radiant glow.
If this has never happened to you, let me tell you it is a strange experience. We absolutely affect other people with our joy, with our smiles. That glow is contagious. I felt I'd unlocked some great secret, that just by walking around and being constantly happy, I could change the world.
Of course, being human, I wasn’t able to maintain that forever. I fell back into old patterns of being angry at the person who cut me off in traffic, thinking about the latest challenge at work, and feeling frustrated that I’d dropped food in between the oven and the cabinet again.
But what an amazing month that was.
There was a guy at a Borders Bookstore one night. He was just half-sitting down with his drink when I walked by. We made eye contact somehow, and he stopped mid-pose and smiled at me as though he wanted to ask why I was so happy. His head had made that questioning tilt that dogs do sometimes. It was a nice moment of connection. If I hadn’t been running out the door to go dancing with some friends, I would have stopped to talk. In retrospect, that was probably my soulmate. Whoops.
It occurs to me as I write this that the experience was a stark contrast to the first time I ever went out in public after transitioning—which was also a Borders Bookstore. (This essay is not sponsored by that bookstore chain, which no longer exists.) As I walked through the doors, some poor woman looked up from what she was reading and burst into laughter. She must have thought that I lost a bet. I can imagine an alternate reality where that had been true and we both laughed until it hurt. Instead, some other emotion crossed over my face. I couldn’t say exactly what it was. I only remember feeling caught off guard and horrified. It only took her a second or two before she looked embarrassed and then back down at her book. Or maybe she walked away. I don’t remember anything after that.
That post-surgery radiant glow had been seeded in some pain, but I wish everyone could experience that level of joy and gratitude at least once in their life.
I wouldn’t know personally, but perhaps an easier thing to imagine would be having been born without legs, then eventually getting prosthetics, and then jogging everywhere simply because you can. The joy of actualization. The joy of overcoming a disability. The joy of getting to experience what most people (fortunately) get to take for granted. Except with gender, of all things.
I suspect that every post-op trans girl cries when having sex for the first time. It’s embarrassing, and I feel bad for our partners. But after so many people call you crazy, insist that you’re a terrible person, selfish, misguided, you finally have this perfect moment, this transcendent experience that feels like touching God. How do you not cry? (Sorry again about that, John.)
The last one percent of certainty for me was in those moments. It’s been over thirty years now. I’ve never regretted a single thing. Despite the challenges, awkwardness, and pain along the way, my transition brought me joy, fulfillment, self-actualization, empowerment, and general happiness. I would do it all over again. Every time.
My story is just one among so many others, each a little different and unique in its own way. But universally, transitioning takes resilience and courage. For all the people that tried to hurt me, there were others who helped, who supported, and sometimes even protected. People from every walk of life. Not just liberals or progressives, but more than a few conservative folks too. We're all in this together. It’s not a dream to imagine a world where trans and non-trans people alike are there for one another. That world exists today, and everyone is welcome to be a part of it, if you’re not already. We all deserve to feel that same radiant glow of self-actualization.