Update from the speedrun transition
The dry-erase board in my bathroom says Every day, I reclaim more of my body and mind.
Most of my transition has happened extremely slowly. Do I like this? Do I want these changes? Is this change okay? Am I okay with how people respond to me? Is this too much, too soon?
But ever since I had my gender reveal moment in January, I’ve been moving fast. My body knows what it is and what it needs and I’m not wasting one more minute in self-doubt, and after a decade of living in trans communities and navigating medical transition, I know where the shortcuts are. I have a consult on the calendar for bottom surgery. Weightlifting exercise to rebuild my chest, shoulders, and core. Voice exercises to darken my voice — which has come down to a low baritone from a soprano in less than three months, not that I’m complaining! Medication to help bring in my facial and body hair faster. I even completed a few name change tasks I’d let slide — such as updating my college transcripts — not because I think I might need them anytime soon, but because those are my grades and my degrees, and I earned them, and I deserve to have those records reflect my real name and gender.
I thought I was done with surprises at this point in my life, but lately I’ve been uncovering an invincible optimism. I’m used to being gloomy as a hedge against disappointment. Who is this sunshine man?
Against a backdrop of more and more threats to gender-affirming care and legal name changes, I have occasionally wondered just what the fuck I am doing. I have reveled in the thought that I’m getting more trans out of spite. I have felt pressure to get everything done before I can’t anymore. I have entertained worst-case-scenario thoughts like I might die in what’s coming, immediately followed with a weird surge of excitement as I realize I’m going to die as a man.
Death has been on my mind a lot, too, because my family has been having conversations about end-of-life planning. My sister and I recently named each other next of kin and decisionmakers for medical powers of attorney, so I wrote out some guidance for how I’d like her to make decisions if I’m unable to advocate for myself.
She asked, “So what if the doctor says there’s a thirty percent chance, but—”
Glancing at the instructions, I realized I’d written them in December. Before my life changed. The instructions said, more or less, don’t do anything foolish. But something new had woken up in me. I now had a personal stake in my body and in my future. This version of me said, I am a fighter.
I got chills.
And yes, I’ll return to talking about writing soon, but my entire life is shifting, and my writing will too. <3