uplift

the gift of being you
the gift of being transgender

This book is not a manual. It is my heart extended to you. We are part of a constellation, connected to those who came before and those still becoming

uplift press, chicago, il
© 2026 gearah goldstein
all rights reserved. no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in articles or reviews.

To the beautiful soul holding this book…

My hope, as you turn these pages, is that you feel something familiar, a warmth, a recognition, a deep breath of relief. This book is more than a story about transgender lives. It is a book for you. A book that honors your feelings, your complexity, your power, and your moments of doubt or joy.I hope to share ideas that don’t focus on struggle but celebrate who you truly are. The moments of deep laughter. The first time you catch your reflection and smile. The power of being called by your true name. The way you change when you no longer have to hide.In this book, I use the word transgender to describe a shared thread of the journey: the simple TRUTH that our gender is different from the one we were told. There are countless other words, identities, and beautiful expressions. Some ancient. Some new. Some still emerging.I choose the word transgender here not to flatten diverse experience, but to find a common note in the background of a vast symphony. We can honor the full range of gender, regardless of the words used to express it.I share many of my stories about my own gender transition. Not all transgender people choose to transition. Transition does not define the transgender experience. Most of all, I want you to feel seen. Witnessed, honored, and celebrated for exactly who you are.Whether you’re just beginning to explore who you are, whether you’re far along in your journey, or somewhere in between, I wrote this with you in my thoughts. With hope. With TRUTH. With LOVE.May my words meet you where you are, and travel with you to where you’re going.With all my heart,
gearah

A Note on Privilege

Before anything else, please know my story is not a blueprint. It is a single thread in a vast, tangled, beautiful tapestry of gender experience. And it has been shaped, profoundly, by privilege.I have had access to healthcare, emotional support, and a measure of safety that many in our community are denied. I have walked through transition with a roof over my head, food in my kitchen, and people who eventually, even if not always immediately, chose to stand beside me. These things matter. They shape what becomes possible. They shape who gets heard.Through this journey, I have met transgender people whose resilience humbles me. People surviving and thriving in systems that were never meant to include them. People navigating racism, poverty, disability, incarceration, immigration, or religious rejection. These are layers of hardship that are not part of my experience.This book is not an attempt to speak for anyone else. It is a conversation from one life. A meditation from one body. If anything in these pages resonates, I am grateful. And if your experience is different, even wildly different, there is so much that we share.There is no right way to be transgender. No singular arc. No perfect terminology. I am here to share what I have lived, and to keep listening. I invite you to hold this moment lightly. Let it be your companion, not define you. Let it remind you that you are not alone, even if your path looks nothing like mine.We are connected by difference. By the courage to become.
That is enough to begin.

A Note on LOVE, TRUTH and TRUST

Throughout this book, you’ll notice I capitalize three words: LOVE, TRUTH, and TRUST. This is intentional, not stylistic.These words have been used as weapons against transgender people for too long. We’re told that if we really LOVED our families, we wouldn’t transition. That we’re denying TRUTH itself. That our existence is incompatible with both, and how can they possibly TRUST us now, if we didn’t share our TRUTH earlier.I capitalize LOVE, TRUTH, and TRUST to reclaim them. To remind us that LOVE is exactly what brings us home to ourselves, not what we betray by becoming real. That TRUTH is what we discover in our bodies, our hearts, and TRUSTING in that knowing.These aren’t abstract concepts. They are the foundation of the transgender experience. When you see them elevated on these pages, let them remind you: you are not living against LOVE, TRUTH, and TRUST. You are living from them.

We Have Always Been Here

We’ve always moved in the spaces between, between what’s expected and what is, between gender and spirit, between the binary, and beyond it, between earth and something more. Before paperwork and checkboxes. Before anyone categorized what a body was supposed to mean, people like us were here.We use new language now, but the TRUTH under all those words is ancient. Every culture has had people who carried more than one way of being. Vision-holders. TRUTH-carriers. Essential members of the community. In many ancient cultures, transgender people held respected roles. They were midwives, for bodies and for change. Artists, healers, storytellers, and knowledge keepers. Their presence was seen as vital. A gift to be honored. A blessing to the community.Fear mongers came and called this flow disorder. They brought borders. Shame. Fixedness. They tried to overwrite the story.But stories that are true do not die. They wait. They move quietly through song, through memory, through touch, through family. As transgender people, we are not stepping out of line. We are stepping back into something older, a tradition of becoming. This isn’t about going back. It’s about people being honored for TRUSTING a knowing. A deep knowing.It’s about LOVE. You’re living proof. ♡

The Time It Takes

There’s usually no single moment when a transgender person notices that they were born transgender. If only it worked like a reality TV makeover: one spin, dramatic music, and suddenly you know you’re you.But it’s quieter than that. It’s more like a slow, persistent uneasiness, a TRUTH coming up inside. Sometimes you barely notice it, until suddenly you do, and then it can’t be unnoticed.For some, that knowing arrives early. A child who says, “Why do you keep calling me a girl’s name,” or who feels a pull to be seen differently. Sometimes that feeling never leaves, no matter how much the world tries to shout it down or make it disappear.For others, the TRUTH takes its time to be uncovered. It can get buried under life, survival, expectation, or just the hope that a different TRUTH would arrive. Sometimes it resurfaces years later, dusts itself off, and says, “Hi. Remember me?”Each path is real. Each path is brave. Knowing early doesn’t make it easy. Coming to it later doesn’t mean you missed your chance. There’s no expiration date on becoming yourself. The TRUTH doesn’t fade with time.If you came to yourself late, this book honors you. It honors the younger you, who survived however you needed to. It honors the present you, who finally listened to that persistent whisper.If you knew early, this book honors your courage to hold onto the TRUTH, even in a world that wasn’t always ready. But you are. There’s no such thing as too late. There’s just this breath and this moment, where your real self belongs.When it comes time to share the TRUTH, it’s a new kind of courage. For many of us, it starts close to home, with a parent, a partner, a best friend. The words might be simple, “This is who I am.” And they carry a lifetime’s weight.Sometimes it’s a whisper, sometimes it’s written in a letter, sometimes it’s a whole conversation at the kitchen table. However it happens, it matters.If it went well, if you were met with LOVE, hold onto that and let it shine for others who are still waiting for their turn.If the TRUTH still lives in your heart and your heart alone, you’re still seen. You’re still real. Your timing is yours, and there’s strength in that.If you shared the TRUTH and it didn’t go how you hoped, you’re not alone.No matter how the world responds, the TRUTH is yours. It can’t be erased. It never stops being worthy of LOVE.As we come to know ourselves and begin sharing that knowing, we don’t just survive. We become bridges, teachers, living proof that change is possible.Transgender people carry a gift: the ability to live outside the narrow lines the world draws, to move between and beyond, to remind everyone that identity, LOVE, and life are so much bigger than the boxes we’re given.We don’t have to force it. We just have to be. By living authentically, we expand the world a little, make it brighter, a little more free. We aren’t outsiders to humanity. Transgender humans are part of humanity’s incredible diversity. We belong to the full spectrum of human experience.Not everyone will understand. Some will hold onto their idea of us. That stings, but their struggle is theirs to work through. Some relationships will grow and stretch; others may fall away. Both are part of the journey.Through all of it, the TRUTH isn’t a burden; it’s a warmth. The people we need will feel that warmth. Fear may show up and wave its arms, but it doesn’t get to write the story. Fear is just a spot where LOVE hasn’t arrived yet.And LOVE? LOVE is growth, spaciousness, and the laughter that breaks through when fear finally loosens its grip. Even the smallest act of real LOVE, a hand held, a name honored, can soften what fear has hardened.That’s the miracle of being alive. We carry the TRUTH into the places that need it, meeting fear with presence.That’s why we’re here. And you’re right on time. ♡

The Gift of Advocacy

Living openly is a kind of activism. Being true to yourself, especially in a world that is misinformed about what that means, is its own kind of advocacy.Sometimes advocacy is a conversation. Sometimes advocacy is a peaceful protest. Sometimes advocacy is simply deciding to exist with a little more grace than you managed yesterday, and maybe finally going to get an ear pierced, because honestly, life’s too short.I’ve come to realize that my life, lived honestly, speaks for itself. Every time I show up, my presence is like a mirror that reflects outward. And mirrors don’t just show our best angles; they catch the hair that won’t lie flat, the food the napkin missed, or the part of you the world is not ready to accept.For some people, my visibility feels like hope. For others, it feels like a threat, or at the very least, a mild inconvenience, like when your favorite restaurant changes the menu and you’re just not ready.That’s the hard TRUTH about advocacy. The more you’re seen, the more you’re vulnerable. And still, we show up. Because hiding hasn’t protected us. And invisibility has never made us free.None of this started with us. The advocacy moving through this moment is old. It’s a continuation of work that began long before we ever spoke, and definitely before the internet.We walk through spaces today because of activists, organizers, and everyday people whose names most history books leave out. Our struggles have been tied to other inequalities: racial justice, disability rights, reproductive freedom, economic fairness, and sadly, this list continues. The threads are woven together, even if they sometimes get tangled. Our freedoms are linked.So when I speak now, when I write, or answer another question I’ve already answered a hundred times, I do my best to answer from my heart and with kindness. I remember that whatever safety or platform I have didn’t happen by accident. It came from privilege, timing, and the work of people who lit the path before me.And even with all of that, advocacy isn’t easy. It can leave you feeling alone. It can burn you out. And there’s not always a self-care guide for how to deal with people who know nothing about you, but have a lot to say.But there is something stronger than fear. Older than exhaustion. Purpose. Working toward the acceptance of all people. And we are not alone. We walk with others, even when we can’t always see them.
Sometimes we just feel them.The shape of advocacy will keep shifting. But the heart of it stays the same: LOVE. TRUTH. The stubborn refusal to disappear. May we carry it with care. May we pass it on wisely. May we know when to rest. Because advocacy is who we are. ♡

The Gift of Patience

Patience is a lesson I didn’t seek, specifically. I thought it might arrive as a side effect, like improved posture or the ability to tolerate leaf blowers.Instead, patience became a central behavior, the effort of staying present, through not just my own unfolding, but also the sometimes slow unfolding of people I LOVE the most. In the beginning, every question felt like hope. Even the awkward ones. Yes, even the ones that began with “So… can I ask?” felt like signs of care.I welcomed them. I felt seen. The world was peeking in, curious, and I’d like to think, trying to learn a new way to LOVE me. That curiosity, even if imperfect, kept me going. It meant the silence was breaking.But as the months and years passed, I noticed how often I was asked to summarize my story, condense something profound into a quick, friendly explanation. Sometimes, I’d feel a little like a walking FAQ section. I enjoy being a teacher, but I noticed the subtle anxiety that comes from telling my story again and again, often to people who may never have had to explain a single thing about themselves.Still, I found some tenderness alongside the fatigue. Because underneath it all, I could see that some people stayed quiet out of care, not indifference. They didn’t want to cause pain, so they said nothing at all.That’s when patience changed for me. It wasn’t just about waiting for people to catch up. It became a living, breathing practice, a way of staying centered, even when my edges felt worn thin.Patience, I realized, is LOVE in action. It’s meeting someone on the path, even if they’re just taking their first step, and offering a smile instead of a sigh. It’s knowing when to open the window and let the questions in, and when to close the blinds and rest.Sometimes, my greatest act of patience is to let myself rest, to let the questions hang in the air unanswered, to TRUST that it’s okay to be silent for a while. Even that is a kind of teaching, showing that we are human first, worthy not for our explanations, but for our presence. Not to be endlessly available, but to be real, to hold the heart of our own story gently, and to remind the world that some things, like gender, like transformation, like tenderness, can be approached with patience, too.So if you’re feeling weary, if you’re tired of being the “representative” for all things transgender, know that you’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to be quietly thoughtful, to let the conversation wait.And when you’re ready to teach again, try to do it from LOVE, not obligation. Because patience is not just a skill. It’s a way of honoring yourself and the beautiful journey of living. ♡

The Space Between Acceptance and Understanding

There’s a smile people give when they’re really trying. Not pretending, truly trying. A smile full of good intentions, careful and kind, but just a little too still around the eyes. Looking like, “Did I mess this up?”Sometimes they say, “I accept you.” And in that moment, I believe them. I feel the effort, the hope, the genuine desire to do the right thing. But acceptance is not the same as understanding. Acceptance can remain still. Understanding moves closer. Acceptance says, “You can stay.” Understanding says, “I want to know you.” Acceptance allows us to exist. Understanding invites us to belong.Being transgender is a journey of becoming visible. Yet even as our connections grow, loneliness lingers, not from rejection, but from misunderstanding. Being seen through the lens of difference instead of depth. Being tolerated, but not fully welcomed.Acceptance is a milestone. Understanding is a homecoming.Many well-meaning people wait to understand before they fully step forward. They search for an internal bridge of familiarity before crossing toward compassion. But the bridge already exists. We don’t need to fully understand each other to honor each other. We need only to TRUST that the other person’s experience is real, even when it lies beyond our own maps.This is where LOVE often stumbles, not because of cruelty, but out of confusion. The need to make sense of something before offering care. But we are not puzzles. We are expressions of being. LOVE walks beside mystery. Respect TRUSTS without full comprehension. Understanding is beautiful, but it cannot be the price of kindness.Sometimes people ask questions not to judge, but to connect. Their language may falter. Their analogies may fail. But underneath, there is often another message: let me find a way closer.It is exhausting at times, being the one to explain. Especially when we’re asked to make the map and be the guide, again and again. But within us is the memory of our own first attempts to accept who we are, and the times we TRUSTED the shimmer of understanding long before we had the words for it.And so, when we have the strength, we might offer that same spaciousness. Not at the cost of our peace. Not every time. But sometimes.Because just as we are not puzzles, neither are they. Some will LOVE through understanding. Some will LOVE through TRUST. And some, if we are lucky, will find their way to both. ♡

The Gift of Curiosity

Curiosity is a welcome spark. It has carried me through the darkest hours, lighting the path toward healing, identity, and a sense of wholeness.For some of us, curiosity is not just a trait. It is a lifeline. We remain endlessly curious about who we are, what feels true in our bodies, and how we wish to move through this world.Curiosity, when held gently, becomes a kind of inner rhythm. It keeps us alive, awake, and sometimes even laughing at where we end up.This grace of curiosity we offer ourselves can grow stronger when we offer it to others. People around us, friends, family, strangers, carry their own questions about our experience. Some questions are sincere, born from a real desire to understand. Others are less so. A few feel as if someone is practicing their stand-up routine, with us as the punchline.We choose when and how to share. We decide which questions deserve our energy. But when real curiosity appears, we are offered a chance to share something important: How to ask. How to listen. How to honor the importance of another person’s learning.The line between curiosity and violation is often felt before it’s seen. It might appear as a lump in the throat or a subtle, wordless “ouch” rising from someplace deeper than language. These embodied signals are wisdom. They let us know when a question has shifted from open-hearted curiosity into entitlement or voyeurism.There’s no perfect formula for recognizing which questions belong. What matters is how the question is asked, and whether the asker holds respect for the answer, and for our right to withhold it.Transgender people are not public property. Our stories are not exhibits. Many of us have been asked to talk about the most intimate details of our lives. This can be exhausting. It can wear away the humanity of our bodies and our stories. And yet, curiosity, when wrapped in grace, can be a bridge. It can create a space for mutual learning. It can dissolve fear. It can transform silence into shared awe.Hold yourself with LOVE. ♡

Privacy and Secrecy

There’s a subtle skill to knowing the difference between privacy and secrecy. They might look the same from the outside. Both are acts of holding something close, of not sharing every detail with the world. But the reasons behind them, the way they land in our hearts, couldn’t be more different.Privacy is LOVE. It’s the spaciousness we gift ourselves to breathe, to grow, to unfold at our own pace. For many transgender people, privacy is more than a preference. It’s a form of safety and self-respect.In the earliest stages of transition, we may not have the words yet. We may not feel steady or safe enough to share what is within us. And that’s not a failing. Not everything needs to be named aloud the moment it stirs to life.I chose to hold my transition privately at first. I was protecting something tender, creating space to unfold at my own pace. I needed space to live without the weight of other people’s expectations or their curiosity. My transition wasn’t a performance. It was something deeply intimate, alive, and fragile.But over time, I noticed something shifting. What once felt like a nourishing boundary started to tighten. My privacy, which had once protected me, began to feel less like a warm blanket and more like a locked door. Not because I owed anyone my story, but because I started to sense a feeling of hiding, not safety.This is where privacy can slip into secrecy. Secrecy has a different energy. It whispers, “If they knew, would they still stay? Would they LOVE this version of me?” Secrecy is built from fear, the kind we’ve learned from a world that has often pushed against individuality. And though secrecy can begin as a shield, over time it can become a heavy burden, separating us from those we most want to be close to.The line between privacy and secrecy is delicate, but the body knows. Sometimes it is a pause before you speak, checking your words to make sure they are safe, or maybe a heaviness in the heart.These are signals that you might be ready for something new. It does not have to be a grand announcement, maybe just a single spark. A beginning.We are allowed to notice when the comfort of privacy starts to feel a little like loneliness. When that happens, it may be the time to move toward more openness.There’s wisdom in having held things close. There’s wisdom, too, in knowing when to open the door, even just a little. May we honor both the sanctuary of privacy and the freedom that comes when secrecy no longer keeps us apart. ♡

The Courage to Go First

Something shifts when we speak the TRUTH simply, as it is, without performing or convincing.“I felt invisible there.”“I used to pretend I wasn’t hurting.”“I don’t always know where I belong.”These quiet TRUTHS do something to a room. They lighten the air. People lean in, not because they’re curious, but because they’ve been waiting for someone to go first.So many of us carry our stories carefully, like glass. We wait for signs of safety, for the feeling that it’s finally okay to speak. But sometimes, safety doesn’t arrive. Sometimes, it’s made. It’s created by someone choosing to TRUST their voice, to show their openness, and to TRUST that the space will hold.That’s what happens when I say I’m transgender. It’s never just a fact, it’s a moment. An internal assessment. Is this the place? Is this the time? But when I do share it from a grounded place, not out of fear but out of TRUTH, it opens something in the people around me.After sharing the TRUTH, I’ve lost count of how many times someone has said, “I’ve never told anyone this, but…” And then they tell me…A memory.A longing they’ve carried quietly.A version of themselves they almost forgot.Because I went first. It’s about being real. So real that others can finally find their own way back to what matters. Because TRUTH resonates. It doesn’t push, it invites.And yet, sometimes, going first awakens an uncomfortable sense of keeping a secret. For many of us who’ve hidden for years, once a door finally opens, everything wants to pour out at once. Like a dam breaking. I’ve done this too, told every story, hoping someone would catch them all and stay. But I’ve learned that too much, too fast, can overwhelm. Not just them, but me.True intimacy isn’t just in what we say. It’s in the space between our words. It’s in what we make room for. Going first means offering one honest piece and then listening. Breathing. Letting silence be part of the TRUTH. Letting presence do its work.And maybe the most sacred thing is being the one who stays. Who receives. Who doesn’t rush to fix, or relate, or redirect. Who just… stays. That’s when people open up. That’s when they come closer. Not because they’ve been impressed, but because they’ve felt themselves more clearly, in our company.So yes, go first, if the moment calls you. And remember: the deepest moments don’t just come from speaking. They come from listening. ♡

Why They Push Back

When something true wakes up, something fearful pushes back. That’s the rhythm of change.The backlash we see against transgender people follows a pattern. It’s what happens when walls hiding the TRUTH begin to crumble. When we live the TRUTH out loud, when we show up fully, unapologetically, we disrupt the story. Not just the one written in laws and classrooms, but the one quietly holding up a binary version of reality.That story says, you are either this or that. It says, don’t move, don’t shift, don’t question. But we do. We arrive in motion. We shimmer. We bend fear into understanding. And that makes the walls nervous. Because if gender can flow, what else can? Power? Desire? LOVE? What else has been kept in place that might suddenly come undone?To see a transgender person living fully is to see a doorway that we were told was never supposed to exist. And some people can’t face that. So they turn away. Or they try to lock it away tightly. They write policies. Cancel funding. Pretend we don’t exist. They build the wall higher and higher, not only to keep us out, but to block their own view of what they surrendered to stay inside.But this kind of erasure starts long before it makes headlines. It begins in fear. Fear that if we get to live freely, they’ll have to ask themselves why they haven’t. Fear that if we are sacred, everything that called us sinful was a lie. Fear that if we’re real, the borders they defend are paper-thin.That fear is loud. Sometimes dangerous. But it’s not rooted. It’s not lasting. It’s the next-to-last crack in something brittle. Something breaking. We meet it with clarity. With grace. With TRUTH sharpened by LOVE. But we do not shrink to soothe it.We’re not here to fix the fear. We’re here to shine. To stay rooted. To hold the lantern steady, so others, when they are ready, can find the path they didn’t know existed.And if those walls ever start shaking, just know, sometimes it’s not an earthquake. Sometimes it’s freedom, breaking through. ♡

Naming the Cruelty, Honoring the Flame

There are TRUTHS I wish I didn’t have to speak. But to write about being transgender, and ignore the sharpest parts of what we face, would be its own kind of silence. I refuse to be silent.Because I’ve sat beside so many young transgender people. I’ve listened. I’ve seen. And I know what happens when no one names the harm.Hatred toward transgender people is not new. But this moment is different. What we’re seeing now is more than discomfort. It’s more than ignorance. It’s cruelty. Public. Calculated. Loud. A coordinated effort to erase, to shame, to break.And our kids, they’re catching the brunt of it. Transgender children and teens have been turned into talking points. They’ve become targets for agendas they never asked to be part of. I’ve met these kids. I’ve held their stories. I’ve felt their wisdom.They’re not confused. They’re wise and incredibly centered. And the world should be making space for them to bloom, not stripping away their care, their safety, their joy.Cruelty doesn’t come from nowhere. It has roots. In patriarchy. In colonialism. In whiteness afraid to lose control. It thrives on fear. Still, even as my heart aches, I carry this knowing. Cruelty is not forever. Fear does not have the final word. History has always moved toward liberation. And every time it swings backwards, TRUTH follows with even more force forwards.We are not new. We are not a disruption. We are a return. We are a reweaving of something ancient. We’ve LOVED. Built family. Shared warmth. Passed fire. Held hands across centuries. Every time they tried to remove us, we returned stronger.So no, we will not vanish. We will not apologize for shining. We will not let cruelty tell our story. We may get tired. We may be afraid. But we LOVE anyway. We rise again. We rest, but we do not quit. The cruelty? It will fade. But the flame? That’s forever. ♡

Holding the Flame

Living openly as a transgender person is more than just courage. It’s inspired defiance, but also simple, tender humanness.Beneath the noise, beyond the protests and policies, we’re just people trying to live in tune with what’s TRUEST inside us. That takes care. That kind of centredness needs tending, especially when the world pushes back. That’s when you learn how to hold the flame.Stay in your story. Not in theirs. Not every argument deserves your breath. You don’t owe anyone an education if they won’t hear it. If someone tries to drag you into a debate about your existence, remember, you’re not the one who’s lost. Breathe. Step back. Return to your center. You’re here to live your humanity, not to prove it.Let joy be your shield. Joy isn’t just a bonus, it’s radical. It’s what no one can take from you. Sing, laugh, dance, let your joy be both your shield and your medicine.Find peaceful mirrors. Keep company with people who really see you. Not just allies, but true kin. People who reflect your beauty and TRUTH without making you explain yourself. Let LOVE be your mirror.Rest without guilt. Rest is resistance. You’re not just here to advocate, you’re here to be alive. When it gets too heavy, set it down. Let the earth hold you for a while. Remember your lineage. You’re not the first. You’re never alone. Others have already danced through the fire barefoot. And still, we rise. Still, we blossom. Still, we move forward.This is what it means to hold the flame, to keep your soul warm, to stay open, even when the wind picks up.You’re not here to be merely tolerated. You’re here to thrive. And every step you take toward your own peace opens the way for those just starting.So hold your flame, no matter how small, or if it sometimes feels more like a flickering candle than a crackling bonfire.On some days, just keeping it lit is more than enough.Let’s keep thriving, one spark at a time. ♡

Becoming

There’s something breathtaking about a transgender person in transition. It’s a return. A realignment so deep, it reshapes the entire landscape of a life.And sure, from the outside, it might appear like sudden changes in name, clothes, and pronouns. But inside, it’s the honoring of something timeless. A TRUTH that arrived long ago, in childhood memories, in quiet dreams, in that restless voice that whispered, “This isn’t me.”Nature never stops becoming. The river shapes the canyon with patience. The seed already knows it’s a tree. Transgender people don’t transform into someone new. We unfold into someone we’ve always been, even when the world begged us not to.That’s radiance. Not the glow that comes from applause, but the light that rises from deep alignment. From TRUTH. From living in step with something older than rules. Older than fear.We often live two lives: the before and the after. And both matter. The before isn’t something broken, it’s part of the becoming. It’s where the courage began. And yes, it takes immense bravery. To leave the familiar. To meet yourself. To be seen. To risk LOVE.And when we do it, when we step into the light, we don’t just change ourselves. We shift the people around us. They feel it. Even if they don’t understand it, something inside them wakes up, too.So if you’re at the edge of this journey, wondering, remembering, about to begin, know this: you are not alone. You are part of something so much bigger than you’ve been told. And your radiance? It’s real. ♡

The Illusion of Happiness

Here’s a TRUTH that doesn’t get said enough. We don’t transition to be happy. We transition to be ourselves.There’s this story people like to tell. That transgender people are just chasing joy. That we were unhappy, so we transitioned, and now we’re better. It sounds tidy. It helps people sleep at night. But that’s not the TRUTH.The TRUTH is, we transition to get closer to ourselves. And when we do, we don’t just unlock joy. We unlock everything. Sadness. Rage. Awe. LOVE. It’s not about fixing a mood. It’s about finally feeling life from inside your own skin.Yes, sometimes happiness comes. But so does the pain we’d been pushing down for years. So does the sadness we weren’t allowed to name. So does clarity.And that’s the gift. Not the promise of being happy. But the power to feel it all. Because when you finally see your own reflection, and it doesn’t hurt anymore, when your name feels like home again, something shifts. You’re not watching life anymore. You’re in it.And that’s what transition gives us. Not escape. But presence. ♡

The Dance of Euphoria and Dysphoria

Sometimes, your skin doesn’t feel like home. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. The reflection in the mirror looks familiar but still wrong.That feeling, that disconnection from your own body, is what we call dysphoria. And it can be brutal. But even though it hurts, dysphoria isn’t the enemy. It’s a signal. A tug on your heart that says, “This isn’t quite right… But something better is possible.” It’s the part of you that knows what wholeness could feel like, and longs for it.And then, sometimes, there’s the flip side: euphoria. The day your shirt fits just right. The moment you hear your name and it lands in your heart as TRUTH. Euphoria is the welcome relief. A delicate celebration. The moment when everything lines up, even if only for a moment. It doesn’t erase the hard stuff, but it reminds you why you keep going.Dysphoria and euphoria often arrive together. They’re not always opposites. Sometimes they dance. Sometimes they crash into each other. But both are part of becoming.And if you’re still in the messy middle, still looking for those moments of ease, it’s okay. Transition isn’t linear. It’s layered. Some days you’ll feel light. Some days, heavy. Some days you’ll wonder if you’re making any progress at all, and then you’ll catch a glimpse of yourself and realize, you are.The important thing isn’t to chase euphoria or avoid dysphoria. It’s to listen. To keep moving toward the center of who you are.If today feels like a two-steps-forward, one-step-back kind of day… smile. You’re dancing. ♡

Is There an Analogy to Life?

There seems to be a common double question. “How did you know you are transgender? What does it feel like?” Before I reach for an analogy, I sometimes ask a question in return.Not to challenge. Not to provoke. But to understand the terrain between us. “What would you say to your own child if they told you they were transgender?”There’s no perfect answer. But how a person responds, whether with fear, curiosity, LOVE, or silence, tells me something. It tells me what kind of listener I’m speaking to. It tells me whether they’re reaching toward me, or waiting for me to explain myself in a way that fits neatly into their world.Being transgender doesn’t translate easily. It feels a little different every day. It’s lived. Felt. Known through contradiction and clarity alike. And when we try to share that experience with others, we’re limited to speaking in analogy.Living as a transgender person is a little like trying to explain a color. You can describe it. You can compare it. But you can’t transfer it. Each person lives inside their own sensory world. So we offer metaphors, borrowed, broken, homemade, true enough.There’s the old one: “trapped in the wrong body.” It never fit me. I wasn’t trapped, I just wasn’t fully here. I felt adjacent to myself, hovering just beyond my own skin.Another shared analogy, with a better focus for me, was that being transgender is like being left-handed in a right-handed world. Everything works, sort of, but nothing feels built for you. That one’s closer, still not quite it.The first analogy of my own creation seemed so perfect at first. I told someone once it felt like I was riding a bicycle down a long hill, without brakes. I could steer, but I couldn’t stop. Transition wasn’t a sudden leap, it was a slow, inevitable arrival into TRUTH.Later, I created an analogy about hunger. When you’re hungry and you don’t eat, eventually hunger is all you can think about. It takes over your body, your thoughts, your energy.That’s what it was like for me. Gender dysphoria was not a quiet discomfort, it was starvation. And transitioning was how I finally ate. How I survived.So many of us speak in metaphor because the truest parts of this journey don’t live in language. They live in pulse, in skin, in dreams. They live in the silence before the words arrive. And in the longing to be understood, even when the words don’t exist.What I’m always hoping to hear in return is not, “I understand.” But, “I’m listening. Take your time.” ♡

The Gift of Conscious Rebirth

We’re not usually aware of our first breath. We are born into this world without memory of our arrival, just sensation, and the universal “where am I?” that babies cry out. Most of us never remember it.But some of us get to remember our own becoming. Not because we’re lucky, exactly, but because something deep inside asked to be born once more. This time, with our eyes open.That’s what transition is for so many of us. Not just a change, but a conscious arrival. And not just one rebirth, either. Many. Each time the world tries to forget who we are, we remember ourselves back into being, over and over again.It begins with a feeling that says, there’s more. Sometimes it’s a disconnection, as if we’re living just outside ourselves, following someone else’s script and forgetting where we put the TRUTH of who we really are.For some transgender people, rebirth may not mean crossing the binary. It might mean becoming flow. Learning to move, to stop asking permission to shift shape or color. Some days we’re rivers. Some days we’re rain.Coming out to the world is a thing. But the first real coming out is always to ourselves. In the breath. In the mirror. In the moment we finally say, “Yes, this is me.”That yes is tender. It might tremble. It might be whispered. But it’s powerful, because it begins to shift everything. You stop standing on the sidelines of your own life. You begin to move. To feel. To exist in color.There’s grief here, too. For the person we once had to be. For the parts of ourselves we hid, muted, or disowned. And so we thank our past. We say, “You got me here.” And then, we let it rest.And from there, we step into a life that holds all the contrast, dysphoria and euphoria, grief and joy. Not perfection, but wholeness.Not performance. Participation.We are no longer hovering. We are living. ♡

Returning to Center

The way home to yourself isn’t a charted course. It curves, it dips, it gets muddy, then clear again.Sometimes dysphoria crashes in, big and loud, and it can feel like you’ve lost your anchor. But even in the roughest weather, there are things you can explore to ground yourself.Some of the following are exercises I’ve tried that were shared by a dear mentor. They are just suggestions. Try what feels right.Touch with Intention. Give yourself a kind touch every day. Maybe you run a hand through your hair, or press a palm over your chest and breathe. Do it to remind yourself: “I’m here. My body is safe with me.”Euphoria Journal. Write down the bright moments. A compliment. The way your body felt in a favorite shirt. A second where you just lived, without worry. Keep these as proof for the days when joy feels far away. It always comes back.Voice of the Soul. Once in a while, write or speak as your truest self. No rules, no audience. Let whatever’s real rise up and spill out. That voice in you knows what you need. Let it lead.I find this work to be nourishing at times. They seem to feed what’s already inside of me. Euphoria isn’t the reward at the finish line. It’s the living proof you’re changing, growing, becoming. It’s what happens when your soul and your self finally move together.And that’s the moment you stop hovering outside your own life. You step in. You come home. And when you forget the way? The door recognizes you. It will open. ♡

The Art of Unlearning

I didn’t learn to be myself by practicing in front of a mirror or borrowing bits and pieces from other people. I let it through.In the beginning, I really thought I’d have to learn by studying, by working for it, by somehow catching up. But the harder I chased that idea, the more distant it felt.Then one day, something inside me just whispered, “Stop.” So I did, reluctantly.My real self didn’t show up by adding more layers. It appeared when I started letting go. I released the rehearsed masculine because it never belonged to me. I let it go with gratitude for what it protected, and relief at finally setting it down. Letting go was an invitation home.Masculinity didn’t feel powerful to me. It felt like acting out a play I never auditioned for. Dutiful and memorized. The world might have called it privilege, but to me, it felt like carrying a weight. Sure, I sometimes moved through the world a little easier, but I was never truly heard, because I wasn’t even speaking with my own voice.People would tell me how great I was for the role I played. But all those words just made me feel even more silent inside. I didn’t feel powerful, or masculine, or male. I felt like I had to keep everything contained, keep up appearances, bury the thoughts, until one day, I couldn’t anymore.That’s where unlearning started. Not because someone taught me, but because I finally stopped teaching myself to be something else. When I made space, I feel like my true self showed up. Just… me. Soft. Sharp. Quiet. Wild. Awkward. Graceful. Real.My true self wasn’t constructed. It was allowed. The more expectations I released, the clearer it got: I wasn’t leaving power behind. I was finally stepping into it.Because for me, power is presence. And presence only really begins when you’re done performing. ♡

Comedy as Alchemy

There are things you can only say with a laugh, and you figure that out pretty quickly if you’re transgender.Humor becomes a lifeline, a bit of magic that lets us breathe. We’re not laughing because everything is hilarious. We’re laughing because it keeps us from feeling crushed by a world that was never really made for us. Humor takes all that weirdness and heaviness and spins it into something lighter.I swear, so many transgender people are secret comedians. Maybe not on stage, but we know how to roll our eyes at the right moment, how to shrug off the absurdities, how to turn awkwardness into an art form.We’ve had to. When people keep asking, “Wait, what are you?” you get very good at making jokes that don’t hurt anyone, especially not yourself.I’ve always LOVED the Sacred Fool, the one who jokes their way through the king’s court, who seems silly until you realize they see everything. I think a lot of us are a little like that, crossing boundaries, messing with scripts, surprising people. A kind of superpower, actually.Sometimes the best stories aren’t lessons. Sometimes, they just make you laugh at the weirdness of being alive. Like the time I was working so hard on my spoken voice, calling stores and asking, “Hi, do you have any sparkling water in cans?” just to hear if they’d call me “ma’am” or “sir.” And that day I got, “Yes sir, we do.” I said thank you and hung up the phone. I was sitting in my parked car, caught my own reflection in the rearview mirror and just shrugged. Not mad, just… this is how it goes. Still proud to be out. Still hoping to be seen.And then I went for a scheduled oil change, even though I didn’t feel up for it. The attendant smiled and said, “You’re in luck, it’s Ladies’ Day.” I nearly floated. It was a silly, ordinary moment, but it was magic. Sometimes, you get the universe’s little wink just when you need it most.Comedy won’t make the path easy, but it will help you walk it. And in that space, others find their way to you.If you’re still figuring out how to laugh, don’t worry, it will come. You’ll tell a story someday and make someone laugh and feel seen. That’s the magic.Transition is all about claiming space, your voice, your name, your presence. Laughter? That’s the space in between. It reminds us we’re not just transitioning, we’re living. Wildly. Imperfectly. And sometimes, with a discounted oil change thrown in. ♡

The Gift of Gentle TRUTH

There will be moments when the air in a room feels thick, when words fall flat or land with too much weight.For transgender people, these moments are familiar, echoes of history, of old defenses, of people saying things they don’t really grasp.When this happens, you face a choice. Will you reflect back the confusion, or hold steady in your own stillness and TRUTH?De-escalation isn’t the same as backing down. It’s strength in stillness. It’s being present, not just reacting.When someone messes up your pronouns, or asks something clueless wrapped in “concern,” or flat-out questions your existence, you don’t have to shrink or flare up. You can just breathe and hold your ground. And if you need a moment, you can always excuse yourself for a snack. Snacks help almost everything.Start by coming home to your body. Settle in. Anchor. Then, when you speak, let it be only what’s TRUE and needed.You don’t have to win debates. You’re here to live, not to prove anything.Sometimes just staying kind, even when others don’t get it, is the bravest thing we can do. Patience. Kindness. Centeredness.Most people have never had to pull apart their identity. They’ve never stayed awake wondering how to belong in a world that wasn’t made for them.So when you walk in, owning your gender, your pronouns, your strength, your openness, it can feel like a lot to them.Sometimes they’ll mistake your strength for fragility and poke at it, looking for weak spots. Let them look. You don’t owe them proof.Conversations can actually be invitations. Share your TRUTH when it fills you up. Let silence speak when words might only bring bruises. Living your real life teaches more than words ever could.For most of us, clarity didn’t come overnight. It took years, sometimes decades. Becoming ourselves wasn’t neat or linear. We unlearned shame, stared down denial, and questioned everything. Even now, we’re still growing.Expecting others to understand immediately isn’t fair to them, or to your own journey. Understanding takes time. Sometimes, it never comes. But respect doesn’t depend on getting it. It only takes willingness.That’s the line to hold. Not “you must understand me,” but “please respect me.” Let that be the center of what you expect, but never lower your standards.You don’t have to over-explain to be treated with dignity. You are already real and valid.If someone says, “I just don’t get it,” you can reply, “That’s okay.” And then you return to yourself, whole and centered.There’s something so many of us carry quietly. All those years of holding the TRUTH, not because we weren’t sure, but because we were protecting someone we LOVED.We held back so they could stay comfortable, so peace could last a little longer. That’s why it stings so much when we finally come out and meet confusion or silence.We carried our identity like a sacred seed, hidden and safe, waiting for the right time. When we let it bloom, it wasn’t just about being seen, it was about offering ourselves.Even if that offering is misunderstood, there’s still something pure in it. We LOVED others enough to hide, and we LOVED ourselves enough, finally, to stop. ♡

The Echo of No Reply

There’s a particular silence I’ve come to know well. It happens after I’ve opened my heart, when I’ve shared something vulnerable about being transgender. I’ll offer words that didn’t come easy, words I’ve sifted through for accuracy, tenderness, and honesty. Words that reveal not just facts about my life, but pieces of my deepest self.And then in return…The other person pauses, their face soft or frozen, their mouth half-open but without sound. I can see they’ve heard me. I can feel the weight of the TRUTH landing in the space between us. But instead of acknowledgment, affirmation, or even a question, there is silence.Sometimes that silence is hesitation. Sometimes it’s confusion. Sometimes it’s the desperate search for the “right” thing to say. But in the moment, that quiet can feel like abandonment. It can feel like rejection disguised as stillness. And it’s so easy to misinterpret. Was I too much? Did I say it wrong? Do they wish I hadn’t spoken at all?Silence has many meanings. Sometimes it means a person is overwhelmed and needs time to process. Sometimes it means they are afraid of making a mistake. Sometimes it means they are moved more deeply than words allow. But when we have the courage to share our words, silence in return rarely feels safe.When we share, we do not only carry the weight of speaking the TRUTH, but we also carry the difficulty of interpreting the response, or the lack of one. We learn to read silence like tea leaves, searching for signs of acceptance or disapproval, friendship or distance.Over time, I’ve learned that the silence of others does not have to define me. I can choose to hold my own center steady, even in the echo of no reply. Because silence, while heavy, is not always hostile. Sometimes it is human limitation, the edge of another person’s courage, or the silent space that opens to new understanding.Still, it is worth naming, silence can wound. A simple word of thanks, a nod of acknowledgment, even “I don’t know what to say, but I hear you,” are small responses that can make the difference between connection and isolation.So I remind myself often, when silence meets the TRUTH, I will not automatically assume the worst. I will breathe into the pause and remember that my words are alive, whether they are met or not. TRUTH is valid whether it is received perfectly, clumsily, or with no response at all.For those who LOVE us, the invitation seems simple to us. Please break the silence with presence. Let your words, however small, remind us that we are not alone. We are listening for you. ♡

The Unnameable Self

Does anyone really know how to describe who they are? We’re taught to act like identity is something fixed, like you could just check a box or answer with a tidy word. But even on the days when you feel most certain, there’s always something extra, just out of reach, a glimmer, a flicker, a hint of mystery.Gender is where these conversations usually start, but the deeper question is: how does anyone ever really know themselves? And how could you ever fully explain it?We’re trained to name ourselves, to give crisp definitions: son, daughter, woman, man, nonbinary, gender. But the TRUTH? Identity is less a label and more a river, always moving, shaped by what’s come before, and always flowing toward something new.When someone asks, “What are you?” most of us reach for the label that almost fits. We try to squeeze the infinite into something pronounceable. But real identity pushes back, not because it’s fuzzy, but because it’s alive. It breathes. It evolves.That’s part of what makes being transgender such a profound experience. Many of us grew up with no role models, no one reflecting the possibility of who we could be. We had to invent language. In that process, we learned: identity is not a box. Identity is living, moving proof that you can claim your selfhood, even if it was once denied.So maybe the truest thing is this, we never really can fully describe who we are. And that’s okay. Maybe what matters most is living in a way that lets the TRUTH of who we are be felt, even if we can’t always explain it. Living that way takes faith. It takes freedom.Still, we often leap at the chance to explain. Someone asks, and suddenly we’re searching for the “right” label or story, trying to make the TRUTH digestible for them. Underneath, there’s usually a noticeable pain. It’s the longing to be seen, and the worry that we won’t be, unless we translate ourselves into someone else’s language.But why answer a question that really can’t be answered? Sometimes, when I catch myself trying, I just turn it around: “How do you describe yourself?” That usually brings a pause. Most people have never had to name their own essence. We have, because we had to. But that doesn’t mean we owe anyone our story.Knowing yourself is one thing. Explaining yourself is another. Sometimes the bravest thing is just to stop trying. The most profound moment in a journey like this isn’t when you announce the TRUTH to the world, it’s when you finally say it to yourself. That moment is rarely loud, but it changes everything.Once you’ve told yourself the TRUTH, what others think starts to matter less and less. TRUST in that knowing. Let it ground you when others don’t understand. You’re not required to explain yourself to anyone else. The only person who really needs to know is you. ♡

The Gift of Joy

Before transition, so many of us sense a pull that just won’t leave us alone. We watch people moving through the world, laughing with friends, picking out apples at the grocery store, just… existing.And in those moments, we wonder, “What’s it like to simply be at home in your own skin?” Not necessarily happy, just at ease. Not weighed down by the sense that something’s missing, or that you’re always slightly out of focus.That pull stuck with me for years. I’d see people on the street, or in a movie, and think, “I bet they feel so free.” Not because I knew their story, but because they seemed to move through the world with a kind of permission I didn’t have.Of course, I knew nothing about their private struggles, but the pull wasn’t about them anyway. It was about the distance between the life I was living and the one I wished for.Back then, joy felt like it belonged to someone else. Like it was a club I couldn’t join. I wanted joy desperately. I just couldn’t imagine how it might ever feel possible for me. But something changes during transition. For me, it wasn’t dramatic or overnight. Joy didn’t crash in with confetti and a parade. It snuck up on me.Suddenly, life was less about running away from myself and more about finally being still. No more trying to squeeze into someone else’s shape.The biggest surprise was how ordinary joy can feel once you stop fighting yourself. It isn’t loud or demanding. It’s delicate. It shows up in the space between thoughts, in the kinder way I speak to myself now, in how I breathe a little easier.I’m not saying everything is perfect. I still have my moments. But there’s a steadiness to my joy that I never knew before. If there was a turning point, it was when I stopped looking for joy as some big, triumphant feeling and started paying attention to the “maybe.” Maybe I’m not broken. Maybe this pull means something. Maybe life can feel easier, not all the time, but sometimes. That “maybe” wasn’t constant, but it was enough to keep me going.With time, that flicker of positivity turned into a lifeline. I clung to it on the hardest days, and eventually, it led me somewhere new, a life where I’m not just imagining being real, I am real. And in that space, gratitude showed up. Not all at once, but as a kind of gentle presence. Not showy. Just real.And yes, sometimes I do still wonder if I’m doing this life thing right. Then I catch myself smiling at nothing, feeling at home, and realize, maybe I am. ♡

The Kind Companionship of Gratitude

Gratitude wasn’t something I set out to find; it arrived on its own, like a friend who’s been there all along just waiting for the right moment. After everything, the pain, the confusion, the late-night what-ifs, I didn’t expect to feel grateful.But there it was. Not because everything had magically worked out, or because struggle vanished, but because I finally felt like I belonged in my own life. Fully. Finally. And that made even the smallest things feel lit up from the inside.Gratitude has a language all its own. You can feel it in the warmth of sunlight on your face, in hearing your real name spoken with kindness, in the calm that arrives when you can finally enjoy stillness.Gratitude can turn the ordinary into something beautiful. It changes everything it touches. It seeps into your body, brightens your heart, and before you know it, you start treating others with more kindness, just because you’ve finally come home to yourself.Tonight, I find myself feeling grateful. I think of you, the one reading this, and hope you find some peace, some clarity, some feeling of being truly seen. I know I longed for more of that on my own journey: more understanding, more reflection, more glimpses of hope up ahead, more connection to someone who shared a similar experience. If these words offer you even a small part of that, my gratitude deepens. And I TRUST it will keep growing, just as it began. ♡

The Return to the Sensual World

For me, gratitude turned into something much bigger than an occasional feeling. It became a daily practice, a steady rhythm, almost like a secret passageway into a world I hadn’t really noticed before.As I started giving thanks for the tiniest things, the warmth of a mug in my hands, the comfort of a deep breath, I realized I was actually waking up inside my body for maybe the first time.My body wasn’t just a way to get around anymore. It became an instrument for living. Gratitude opened a door, and on the other side was sensuality. Not just as it relates to sexuality, though for some of us, that’s part of the story. I mean sensuality in its fullest sense: touch, taste, scent, sound, and sight. Each sense returning, like long-lost friends knocking on my window, waiting for me to answer.They’d always been there, but I hadn’t really felt them. Not until I gave myself full permission to just be.Transition didn’t just give me a new name or body. It gave me back the world of the senses. I really don’t believe this has anything to do with being more or less feminine. Sensuality belongs to everyone.What changed for me was permission, the freedom to feel, to savor, to linger. The sensual world isn’t a show; it doesn’t need to be proved to anyone. It’s just there, waiting for us to notice.When I walk barefoot on the sand, taste caramel, or let a soft blanket brush my skin, I’m not doing anything special. I’m simply living. And it still amazes me how much I missed before I TRUSTED myself to inhabit my own life.Gratitude might have opened the door, but sensuality taught me how to stay in the room, with curiosity, reverence, and a willingness to slow down.Most of all, sensuality feels like a new way to connect with others. It’s there in a gentle look, a voice that matches another’s energy, or the patience to hold a moment and really listen.Sensuality isn’t always about touch, it’s about presence. The heart of it is listening, not just with ears, but with your whole being. Not rushing to fix or fill the silence. Just receiving: LOVE, words, beauty, the world. It’s not something you have to invent. It’s something you allow.And when you do, when you open up a bit and let yourself receive, the sensual world welcomes you home. And you realize that’s right where you belong. ♡

Returning to the Body

Some TRUTHS live so deep inside us that it’s hard to say them out loud, or even to ourselves.I am sharing this chapter with care. It’s about sexuality, about the way something can wake up during or after transition. And while this is just a piece of my story, I hope you find something that speaks to you in it.Sexuality, for many transgender people, is a place that feels both strangely familiar and oddly new. It’s shaped by past hurts, by things we were taught to feel shame about, and by desires that didn’t have room to surface before.In the beginning, the body can feel distant, like a stranger. Pleasure might feel complicated, sometimes even scary. Touch can carry old memories of dysphoria. Desire can be confusing before it becomes clear.But then, there’s a moment, sometimes so small you might miss it, when your body starts to feel like home. Maybe it’s sensuality that comes first, a flicker of arousal that finally feels like it’s yours. The split between self and body begins to heal. And from there, sexuality isn’t just allowed, it becomes something worth exploring.Some of this journey I keep to myself, not out of fear but as a way to honor it. What I’d like to share is that I had to meet myself anew, to discover what desire felt like in my body. I had to let go of scripts that didn’t belong to me and start making my own. There were moments of surprise, of sadness, and of deep joy.I’ve spent so much of my life saying “no” to countless things about myself. I’ve learned to keep my heart open and not be so quick to dismiss.Before transition, I wasn’t attracted to men, and I took comfort in the idea that sexuality and gender are separate. But for me, those boundaries blurred over time.When I first noticed the shift, I felt afraid. Had I been wrong about everything? Was this proof that I’d misunderstood myself all along? I worried that if my sexuality could change, maybe my gender wasn’t real either.But I came to understand: my gender was never in question. What changed was my capacity to receive desire as the person I actually am. For years, I’d only known attraction through a lens of dysphoria, of distance from myself. As that distance closed, everything else shifted too.I remember the first time a man looked at me with interest, with seeing rather than judgment. I felt fear, then something warmer, a smile passed between us. It was new and exhilarating to feel seen that way. I realized it wasn’t about being drawn to men or women, or any specific gender, but about being seen as myself, and being desired for who I truly am.Some transgender people’s sexuality never changes. Some discover new dimensions of desire. Some find their attractions deepen in familiar directions. All of these are real. All of these are valid.In this way, sexuality became less about sex itself and more about presence, about knowing I have a right to feel good, to want and be wanted. About healing the distance I once felt from my own body.It’s about realizing I’ve always been worthy of pleasure, not as a reward for changing, but as a TRUTH that’s always belonged to me. This path isn’t simple or easy, but it’s real.If you’re just starting to wonder whether you might someday feel whole in your own body, you’re not alone. You’re in the middle of becoming. Sometimes, these discoveries arrive gently. Sometimes they surprise us, on an ordinary day, in an unexpected way.And if you’re not there yet, or if your story unfolds differently, that’s perfectly okay. There is no finish line to this kind of becoming. Your pace is perfect. Your story, whether whispered or shouted, belongs entirely to you.May we talk about sexuality with reverence, not shame. May we honor our stories, both the ones we share and the ones we keep close. Let’s hold these TRUTHS gently, for ourselves and each other. There’s more than one way home. ♡

The Thread That Holds

There are times that feel impossibly heavy, when you just can’t see how to go on, when continuing, explaining, or even just existing feels like too much.If you’ve ever been in that place, please know you’re not alone. I’ve been there, too.After I came to terms with being transgender, there were times I thought, quietly and calmly, maybe I could just leave this world. Not in anger, but almost as a kindness, to myself, to others. I’d found the TRUTH, I’d named it, and the idea of not forcing everyone I LOVE to take this journey with me started to look gentle, even merciful.But something always kept me here. Sometimes it was something small, the wind carrying the sound of a bird, a friend checking in, the mystery of not knowing what might come next.
Sometimes it was anger, pure and simple, that life had made me feel like I had to choose between living and being real.If you’re in that place now, you don’t have to solve everything. You don’t have to know the whole path. You just need to stay for one more breath. And then another.Being transgender isn’t what makes life unbearable; it’s what makes life honest. And when you’re finally met with LOVE in that honesty, it’s enough, maybe not always, but enough to keep going.You are not a burden. You’re not broken. You’re not alone. The thread that holds us might feel thin, but it’s strong, woven from the LOVE of everyone who’s kept going, and from the spirit of those who couldn’t.It’s made of every smile you haven’t seen yet, every new morning still waiting for you.I carry the memory of someone I LOVED like a daughter. She left too soon, held by the same hard questions I’ve faced. I wish she could have read this, known what I know now: staying is not about being strong for others, it’s about TRUSTING that your own light still belongs here.Please, stay. Not for the world, but for your own becoming. If you need it, let this chapter be the thread that holds you. You matter here. You’re allowed to rest. But please, stay.We need you. Just as you are, still here. ♡

Navigating Relationships

There’s no one-size-fits-all guide for coming out or for sharing the TRUTH with the people you LOVE. I can’t offer a checklist, only a reflection of what this journey has looked and felt like for me.Every relationship in my life has required its own approach, its own kind of honesty. I learned early on to let my heart lead and let the words come from that place.Living openly as a transgender person changed all my relationships, from the innermost circle outward. Each step toward self-acceptance sent ripples into every part of my world.With my wife, sharing the TRUTH may have started in a single dramatic moment, but it has also been an ongoing conversation, one that still grows and shifts. Speaking the TRUTH, even when my hands shook and my voice trembled, was terrifying. But I knew I couldn’t hold it back any longer.Sometimes LOVE drew closer. Sometimes it changed shape. But always, honesty felt fierce and essential, like a campfire in the woods at night.For me, language and timing mattered, but mostly I found that if I spoke with peace, many heard LOVE before anything else.Extended family had their own rhythms and expectations, and when I transitioned, I felt some step closer, and others step away. Even now, there are those who cling to my past, who still speak of me in old stories. That’s where they are, and I’ve learned to let that be.With friends, especially those who’ve been around for decades, sharing the TRUTH brought its own kind of fear, the fear of losing a whole history. But my heart needed to speak, and I was often met, not with immediate understanding, but with LOVE. That was enough to move me forward.I saw this pattern with so many people: most don’t have perfect words, but when LOVE is there, it holds. Not everyone stays. But those who do stretch enough to make room for who you are.People around me suggested that I should find connections in community, but that experience was overwhelming at first. Everyone seemed so far ahead of me, so sure of themselves. I had to remind myself to walk my own path, at my own pace. Support was real and healing, but it couldn’t replace my own journey.What I hope you take from all this is simple: you don’t have to explain everything. When you lead with TRUTH and stay patient, your people, your real people, will find you. Relationships will shift, and you will find your way, one step at a time. ♡

The Gift of Parenting

There’s no roadmap, no step-by-step guide for how to navigate the mess and the miracle of transition while still raising children.For some, transition happens alongside carpool lines, PTA meetings, and the daily demands of home. Parenting and becoming, woven together. It isn’t easy. There’s the fear: Am I putting too much on my children? Am I asking them to carry something they didn’t choose?There’s the ache of changing the name they call you, the anxiety of how they’ll explain things to friends, the worry about how the world will treat them because of who you are.But then, there’s also the astonishing freedom. When you step into the TRUTH, you create room for your child to step into theirs. Authenticity is contagious. It ripples through the whole family.Children see so much. They notice the tension and the tears, but they also see the centeredness, the joy, the relief when you are finally living honestly. They may not have all the words, but they feel the difference.Parenting is a process of showing up again and again, not as the parent you once were, but as the parent you are becoming. Still LOVING, still learning, and still deeply present. Yes, there will be grief for what was lost. Yes, the questions can feel endless, and sometimes there’s guilt that feels too heavy to bear.But the lesson, for me, has been LOVE matters more than having all the answers and that presence matters more than perfection.I remember, in the hardest moments, the way my own mother LOVED me, how she insisted, “I LOVE you more.” It didn’t always make sense to me as a child, but as a parent myself, I understand now.The LOVE we have for our children is bigger than any fear, bigger than any confusion, bigger even than the transitions we make.I find great comfort in knowing that even before my own transition, if one of my children had come out to me as transgender, I would have LOVED and supported them no less. How could I not offer the same LOVE and compassion to myself? ♡

When the Past Knocks

There are days when the past sends a gentle hello, and days when it shows up with a force you can’t ignore.Sometimes, for me, it’s as simple as finding an old picture tucked in a drawer, or hearing my old name in a place I didn’t expect, or getting a message from someone who remembers the “before.”Some of those moments feel warm, like a hug from another life. Others sting, a reminder that not everything, or everyone, was meant to transition with me. I used to think I had to work everything out, to patch up every relationship, to wrap things in tidy closure before I could move forward.These days, I see it differently. Some things stay unfinished. Some memories I keep close. Others, I let go of, no drama needed.When the past shows up, I let myself feel what I feel. Sometimes it’s relief, sometimes grief, sometimes just gratitude that I’m still here. Looking back at old photos, I remember the disconnect, seeing myself LOVING hard, present for my kids, doing my best, but feeling just a little bit outside my own life.It took a while to accept that both versions of me were real, both mattered, both deserved kindness. Now, I let old habits, old names, even the occasional slip-up just be part of it. Me and my LOVED ones, we’re still learning. No one’s failing. We’re just figuring it out, together.When the past knocks, I don’t brace myself like I used to. I open the door gently. Sometimes, I even invite it in, just long enough to remember how far I’ve come.There are still days when old feelings catch me by surprise, but I don’t have to be “over it” to keep going.I just have to keep becoming. That’s enough. ♡

Beautifully Ordinary

Most mornings now, I don’t think about being transgender. Not because I’m pushing it away, but because my life has settled some.I let the dogs out, make my coffee just the way I like it, maybe remind myself to actually drink it before it gets cold. I check in on my kids, even if it’s just to see where their hearts are drifting today. I enjoy the quiet of an ordinary day. Through it all, I still struggle to be patient with leaf blowers.There was a time when “transgender” was the first word I woke up with, the word that held my footing, my people, my courage. That word was my shelter, and I needed it.Now, it feels more like a part of me, but not the headline. I’m a person living my life, running errands, falling in LOVE with the same small pleasures everyone else gets to enjoy.My transition doesn’t take up all my thoughts anymore, unless something brings it back. A song, a smell, a memory. Mostly, I’m just here. The ordinary feels like a gift, maybe because for so long it felt just out of reach.Not every transgender person wants to lead with that label forever. For some of us, it was what helped us get across, but it’s not where we want to live.I’m still proudly transgender, and I will always be. But these days, I simply feel like myself, whole and present. This is what it means to integrate the journey, not to erase it, but to make room for all of it, especially the everyday joy that comes after.I used to imagine meeting someone both ordinary and extraordinary, who didn’t have to lead with their history, but never denied it. Maybe, somehow, I’ve become the person I imagined meeting.The past still whispers now and then. A memory, a glance, a feeling. Not ghosts, just the reminders that tie me to who I’ve been.I let them in, grateful for all the experiences that made me who I am. And on the best mornings, I remember to enjoy it, coffee in hand, dogs at my side, life finally unfolding in the beautifully ordinary. ♡

Every Day

Every transition is its own miracle, especially your own. There’s no need to rush, to have it all figured out, or to feel any further along than you are. There is beauty in being right here, even when you can’t quite name what “here” is. The not-knowing is important. It might not have a name. It doesn’t need one.Pause with me. Breathe. Feel the aliveness in your body, in the ground, in the sky above. This moment is enough. And so are you. If something in these pages met you, if a line stayed with you, if a breath came easier, if you felt seen even for a moment, then I am deeply grateful.This book was not written to explain. It was written to accompany and not to define anyone else’s journey. To offer the TRUTH with the hope that it might help someone else feel less alone. More steady. More possible.These pages are not the end of my story. And they are not the beginning of yours. They are a meeting place. A resting point. An open exchange.And from here, the path continues. ♡

These words are dedicated to a beacon
that helped so many find their way home,
Elise
♡