Is This Thing Still On?

On finding yourself at the end of the world.

Athens Is Burning! The School of Athens and the Fire in the Borgo, Salvador Dali, 1979-1980

As always, I have no idea where to start.

My extended absence from this platform has stemmed from a lot of things, but chief among them: I’ve had a very awkward time figuring out how to talk about myself. This is more or less a lifelong issue, but the past year has made it even more complex. How do we conceive of ourselves in the face of change, any change? Even more demanding, how do we describe ourselves in the middle of absolute shifts: across changing bodies, names, feelings, desires?

With that said, I’ve been able to return here because I’ve recently started to feel like myself, for perhaps the first time ever. Part of puberty, as I’ve re-discovered over the past year, is that change comes in two stages: pain, and then the emergence of new life. If I’d been writing even six months ago, I’d probably break down the specifics of that phenomenon, and some of the physical changes that I’ve been experiencing. But a big part of growing up is knowing when to shut your mouth.

On an emotional level, I feel like this whole past year has been a long period of pain, out of which I am now emerging with new life. Who am I? I’ve answered that question in pronoun circles, positionality statements, author bios, university applications, cover letters, résumés, and medical appointments, all without really getting anywhere. Indeed, as our identities are socially formed and manifest in relation to others, I grew very adept at answering that question without ever internalizing its meaning. I would characterize my historical sense of self as a series of ideas, many of them conflicting, that have focused on my responsibilities to the people and institutions around me. Who am I? has often translated, in my experience, to Who do you want me to be?

This is a dynamic that I certainly would have identified in my pre-transition experiences, but I’m beginning to understand how it’s informed my experiences of transition as well. The life of the early transitioner is one of constant over-analysis, always questioning whether a turn of phrase or a tone of voice was the wrong one. Although my first months of womanhood came from a place of deep self-reflection, they were also deeply wrapped in the validation of others: the social position of the transgender woman is often a desperate one.

After months (years?) of navigating that desperation, it feels like things have finally settled. My housing situation has been stable for some time now; all aspects of my transition have been finalized at work, where my students think I’m a cis woman; and I’ve solidified my closest relationships while moving away from dynamics that were ultimately harmful. What better time to take stock of my own identity?

As I said, transition quickly teaches you that pain is necessary for the formation of new life. This month, for the first time in my life, I quietly came to the realization that I feel like myself: that is, a self no longer dependent on validation, no longer dependent upon the reactions of others, and no longer torn between how things are and how I want them to be. I am simply myself.

For as long as I can remember, introductions terrified me. I never knew how to present myself to strangers: I could go through the motions, after a while, but underneath I knew that I was only sharing a fabrication, a lie. Whatever language I used was cover for the void, the indescribable thing, that lingered below.

Transition gave me a path towards healing that void, but this entire time it’s been a path, a journey, not a stable place. This went on for so long that I began to feel the journey was endless—that there really was no destination at all, just the constant process of almost-being.

But now I am. I felt it this week: laughing in the company of friends, dressing myself without anxiety, introducing myself to strangers. I’ve arrived for the first time in my life.

I’m a 26 year-old woman, almost 27. I love writing, and I read for the purpose of getting better at it, always interested in books that (as I recently told my mother) “try to kill me.” I care deeply about education and its emancipatory potential. My biggest weakness is that I’m too inexperienced, too focused on the big picture at the expense of details. I’m terrible with the stricter expectations of my profession: deadlines, grades, homework. As my colleagues have begun to realize, I will always assure a child that something is okay, even when it isn’t.

I have terrible visual acuity, and will immediately panic if someone asks me to spot what’s changed about a room. My classroom has a wall labeled “Our Work” which I haven’t populated, not because I don’t care, but because I keep forgetting it’s there (it’s the first thing on my to-do list when we get back from this break). Like my parents, I have no natural talent for handling logistics, and have to actively coach myself through the process of filling out paperwork or paying a bill.

I carry with me little pieces of every place I’ve been — always eager to return to old friends, old flirtations, old memories. My most common recurring dream involves reconciling with people I loved years ago. The person changes each time, but the dream is exactly the same.

I’m sentimental. I hold small moments close to my chest because I believe that every word shared between people, even in jest, is a miracle. Every time someone gives me a gift, I put it somewhere in my bedroom, where I won’t forget it. Sometimes I’ll wish I could go back, to when I graduated high school or middle school, knowing everything I know now. I’ll wish that I could live all those wasted years as myself.

But I’m here now.

In the present moment, in our current political climate, I often worry that I’m not doing enough. I worry that none of us are doing enough. For several months, I was afflicted with daily anxieties about my own potential death: from transphobia, from climate change, from the looming collapse of supply chains, from the decay of society. I still carry those feelings with me, but I think they’ve settled a little. In a recent parent-teacher interview, a mother told me that our conversation was the first positive talk she’d ever had with a teacher about her child. For the first time in my life I know who I am, and I’m finally starting to feel like my presence on this earth matters. I am here. What more could I ask for?