Becoming Me: A Journey
I want people to know me because of what I've done for the world, not just because I’m visible.
I want my story to matter. I want to reach people, to get them to feel even a fraction of the emotions I’ve felt — the grief, the strength, the hope.
For a long time, I pushed my true self down so deep I almost forgot she was there. But she never left — she waited, quietly, for me to be ready. And when I finally let her out, the world changed. I changed. And I realized just how much of life I had been missing.
It’s not easy. Some days I feel like I’m stuck in a limbo, like I’ve taken two steps forward and one painful step back. But I know who I am now. Even when I have to hide it to survive — she’s still in there. I see her in the reflection more and more.
If you're reading this and it resonates — you’re not alone. There are people out there who feel this deeply, who cry in secret, who want nothing more than to live honestly and be seen for who they truly are. You are not broken. You are beautiful, exactly as you are.
Thank you for seeing me.
Living in Between
April 17, 2025
Imagine waking up every day and having to put on a costume — a version of yourself that the world expects, not the one that feels real. Imagine spending your whole life playing a role, pushing down every true feeling just to survive. Then one day, the mask slips, and for the first time, you see her — the real you — staring back in the mirror. And it hits you like a freight train: you can’t unsee her. You can’t go back.
That’s where I am. I’ve been living as her — finally — for weeks now. And today I had to become him again, just for a job interview. Just for a chance to survive in a world that still judges based on appearances instead of merit. I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw. The clothes, the posture, the voice — none of it was me. I ripped off the rainbow necklace. I took out the earring. But I kept the pretty blue nails. A small act of resistance. A tiny reminder that she’s still here.
The dysphoria hit hard. I felt grief. Not sadness — grief. Like I lost something precious. Because I did. I lost sight of her, of myself. And it physically hurt. My back ached. My heart ached worse. I felt everything I’ve worked so hard to build slipping through my fingers — confidence, joy, even the willpower to stay strong. I haven’t wanted a cigarette this badly since I quit. That old pack on my desk isn’t a trophy anymore. It’s a temptation. But I’m still here.
The world is brutal to people like us. All I want is to live my life authentically, but some days it feels like that’s too much to ask. I feel stuck — trapped between who I had to be and who I’m becoming. Every time I step backwards, it reopens old wounds. And yet… I keep going. Because I know who I am now.
I wrote this because maybe someone else feels stuck too. Maybe someone else needs to hear that they’re not alone. That these feelings are real. That this pain means something. That you’re not weak — you’re fighting every single day to exist, and that is the strongest thing a person can do.
If you see me — really see me — thank you. You have no idea how much that means.