Moments to Me: A Transition Story, Part 5

On voice changes and feeling homeless in the church

Day 1

I stroll into work, a little taller than usual. It’s a little after noon, and I can’t stop smiling.

“Hello!” I bound, a friend that sits behind the front desk smiles and says hello.

I float over toward my office, poking my head around my boss’s office to say hi on my way.

“So,” he grins.

“I did it! I just stabbed myself in the leg!”

The further I get into my transition, the more I see myself. I smile more. I laugh more. My shoulders relax a little more. And every day I see myself a little more clearly when I look into the mirror.

He laughs one of his silent office-dad laughs. “You’re not going to start hulking out on us, are you?”

I laugh and smile the stupid smile I get when I’m too happy to contain myself. “Nah, I’m too passive for that!”

“Okay, good. Well congratulations,” he smiles again.

“Thanks!” I smile and head to my office, only to turn around and run to another one.

Three knocks on the door are met by two familiar voices.

“Who is it?” “Go away!”

I smile and open the door, my face is still beaming.

“Are you a man, now?” my friend smiles.

“I dunno, do I sound different yet?” I joke. I’ve only been on testosterone for a few hours, and already I’m euphoric. I wonder how long this will last, because I kind of like it.

Day 9

“Nora!” I half-yell across the office. I can hear her talking to some of the finance guys.

“Hello!” she smiles. “They’re making me tea,” she gestures towards the guys.

I have a laptop in my hand, and a suppressed grin on my face.

“I need to know that I’m not insane. Listen to these two clips and tell me if they sound different.”

I place the laptop on the counter and hit play.

“Hello! My name is Parker, and I am approximately one hour on T.” in the clip I’m glowing with joy. My smile is enough to make me proud, even now.

It’s too early to hear changes, but my ears search for any confirmation of progress.

“Hello, my name is Parker and I am one week on T.”

I hit the pause button and look at her, expectantly.

“Yeah, there is a bit of a difference!” One of the guys standing with us chirps in and confirms that, yes, it does sound slightly deeper. Or maybe foggier. But definitely different.

Day 14

A distant sound of tinny music begins to trickle into my consciousness. I groan and roll over, met with the sounds of a waking dog. She stands on the bed, stretches and makes her morning noises, and attempts to lick me as I laugh and hide under the covers.

“Good morning, Bean,” I manage to get out. But instead of her normal morning kisses and wagging tale, she starts barking.

“What is the matter with you?” I ask in frustration, afraid she might wake the neighbors. But then I hear it. My voice. Something is different.

Day 15

The alarm sounds, again, like it always does. This time I sit right up, the dog not as excited as I am to be awake. It’s shot day.

I move quickly to convince the dog to go outside. Once she is back in and fed, I sit down next to the bedside table. On it sits all of the things I need every Thursday morning: a syringe, two needles, gauze, a bandage, antiseptic wipes, and a vial of testosterone cypionate.

I’m more relaxed, confident, and happy. That doesn’t mean this transition has been or will be easy. But for now I’m enjoying the boost that comes with gender euphoria.

My fingers move to open the syringe and remove the capped needle. I attach the shorter needle to the syringe and set it aside.

Sterilize the top of the vial. Insert the needle and tip the vial upside down so I can slowly draw out the 0.3 milliliters I need.

My pointer finger taps the vial to move bubbles to the top. My hands move to set the now empty vial aside so I can recap and dispose of the needle and place the other needle on the syringe.

I use my hands to measure where the injection site is. Sterilize the site with a new antiseptic wipe. Count to 30 while it dries.

Uncap the needle, hold the syringe like a dart, poised just above my left thigh.

Deep breath in. Easy peasy.

I close my eyes as I inhale, and open them as I quickly insert the needle, all the way through to the muscle. I slowly plunge the substance into my leg, quickly remove the needle, toss it in the plastic container, then place a piece of gauze over the tiny spot of blood that has appeared.

Easy peasy.

This week I have a Chewbacca bandage. It makes me smile.

Day 17

I’m on my back, eyes still closed. I take in a long, deep breath that turns into a yawn. My right arm moves instinctively to the back of my neck while my left arm comes in toward my collarbone then stretches out as far as it can reach.

No alarms today, just rest. My eyes blink their way open. The sun is streaming in through the partly cracked blinds on the window. The dog is at the end of the bed, happily stretched out across the entire mattress. Her head and ears perk up when she realizes I’m awake, her tail moving happily back and forth in response.

She stands and walks over to me, curling up in a ball as she nestles her head under my arm. Some days she’s just as happy to sleep in as I am.

Katara, my best friend. She is my snuggle bug, my anxiety antidote, and my favorite thing about coming home.

I close my eyes and let my mind wander, the sound of spring muted only slightly by my bedroom window. Eventually Katara decides we’ve slept in long enough, and takes my yawn as a sign that I’m ready to get out of bed. I laugh and give in as she pounces over me and tries to stand on my back.

“You wanna go outside, Bean?”

I furrow my eyebrows together. My voice feels…but it just dropped the other day. But I can feel and hear a difference this time. Last time only the dog and my voice app noticed the difference.

I sit up and get my phone to open the voice pitch analyzer app. As I read I can feel the vibrations of my vocal chords lower in my chest. It feels weird, but sounds kind of great.

Sure enough, another drop.

I went from averaging around 175 hz to 150 hz to 130 hz. In the span of about half a week. Turns out the second drop was only a temporary effect of a long day of talking at work, but my voice is still noticeably different than it was a few weeks ago.

Day 18

I find myself sitting in the church I was hoping to call home. It’s been a little rough these last few months, but something tells me it’s not time to give up.

I struggle to listen to the sermon; the man on the stage a living, breathing reminder of the pain I associate with this place.

I have been told, in so many words, that my place in the church is as a woman and nothing else.

But once the music begins and the word of God is read, I collapse into His presence. For a few moments, I’m at peace.

“You okay? You seemed kind of anxious today,” a friend asks after the service.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” I glance up from my phone, “Just kind of disconnected today. I gotta go, I’ll see you later.”

I close the car door, put the key in the ignition, and sigh. Today was the day I was meant to be Confirmed in the Anglican church. It was the day I thought I would be welcomed into a new family.

The Confirmation service is at 3:00. I walk into the sanctuary, slowly, a bit unsure of myself. I’m wearing a t-shirt that has a heartbeat line, the colors of the transgender pride flag flow from one end of the line to the other. Over top I have a pinkish button-down.

I scan the room and see a handful of people wearing pink, like me. We’re all here in solidarity, to silently protest the leadership’s exclusion of LGBTQ+ Christians from this community. There are only six of us, but we stand out.

No one but the clergy know why we’re here. No one even knows that we’re protesting. No one knows that we’re sitting here to show the church leaders that we’re here, we want to be a part of this community, and we’re saddened by the reality that we have been excluded from this family.

I thought I would be proud to sit in protest. I thought it would feel good to say with my presence that I matter, we matter.

Instead I’m filled with the same sorrow and pain that I have felt for a long time. Today is Confirmation day, and I am sitting silently and idly by.

The Confirmants stand on the stage and recite the same creeds that I recite and affirm. We are not as different as some might say. And yet I stand, surrounded by shirts of pink, an outsider looking in.

Four of us are sat around a high-top table. Laptops, headphones, books, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies litter the space. Two of the people here wore pink and stood next to me just hours before.

Still processing my thoughts and emotions from today, I get up and go outside. The brisk air and smell of spring overwhelm my senses. I lean over the balcony and take in a deep breath before letting my head drop and a tear fall.

“When will I get to go home?” I whisper. “Will they ever see me? I mean really see me?”

The sound of a train horn sounds in the distance. I look over my shoulder and see the three people who are my family here. Two are laughing, the other is smirking while pretending to still work.

I sigh again, my heart filled with both gratitude and sadness. I close my eyes and thank God for these people. For me, right now, they are home. Messy, crazy, exciting, loving, challenging, fulfilling, home. And I hope that some day, maybe, the church will welcome me back into the family I long to be part of. The home that so many of us are left waiting outside, looking in, longing to come to the table.