Strength
Some thoughts about getting strong, taking Testosterone (T), therapy, and supporting each other in our communities
For so much of my life I’ve been told to stand straighter, get stronger, be more graceful, be more confident. I’ve been realising that a big part of the reason I struggled so much to do any of these things is because they weren’t things I could just push myself into being, without safety and support. Gracefulness comes from strength, which is linked with being able to be soft and gentle with ourselves.
If I try to lift a weight and I’m not quite strong enough to do it, my movement will be more jerky and wobbly, I could hurt myself or someone else; I’m not safe enough to carry so much weight. I’m awkward and ungraceful because people can see that I’m not safe — what if I drop it on their toes?
Conversely when I was quite young, I was also often told that I didn't know my own strength. I don’t think it was actually because I was unusually strong, but instead I think I was clumsy in my attempts at trying to show more strength that I had. I didn’t yet know that I was trans, but I did often wish I was a boy, and I had picked up by that point one of the many unhelpful messages flying around relating to masculinity — that one needed to show strength to be considered strong, even if it meant pushing past my limits, and being less in control.
Building strength that lasts, that’s sustainable, requires safety. We need spotters to help catch us, gentle movement and exploration to expand our range, recovery time when we’ve pushed too hard or gotten hurt, compassion towards ourselves and ideally from those around us, which gives us space to move and grow.
We don’t live in a society that often gives us this space, or this support. We’re told to get strong, be resilient, be graceful. We’re told if we’re not succeeding at these things then we’re not trying hard enough. Even the pressure of the pushing and the shaming so often forms part of what holds us back and hurts us.
In terms of physical strength, for me taking T (Testosterone) as part of my transition has contributed to giving me space to get stronger gently, within the constraints of my life, alongside affirming aspects of my gender identity. Without T my ability to gain muscle with EDS (Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome, a connective tissue disorder) was so limited, and so often constrained by injury, that even if it were possible, it didn’t feel possible in a way that is congruent with the rest of my way of being: the time commitment, control, pain, focus on very careful specific exercises, exhaustion — it would’ve made me deeply miserable, and it did every time I did try. Without access to T I like to think that I might’ve found some other way to settle into a very different physical reality. Perhaps I’d have been lucky enough to find forms of consistent physical therapy that help. I’m certainly not telling everyone in my position to take T — it wouldn’t surprise me if a significant part of the impact of T for me isn’t just the help with physical bulking up, but also the gender affirming bulking up of my confidence in inhabiting my body, and in moving through and taking up space. If I wasn’t able to access T, or if it wasn’t right for me, I think I’d have still been able to become emotionally stronger and more graceful, but I might’ve had to come to terms with my ongoing physical deterioration, and learnt to be gentle with myself within that (because most of the pushing in the past only caused more pain and injury, and ultimately more deterioration).
Emotionally, I have been gaining strength through therapy, through experiencing the unconditionality of my therapist (have I just compared my counsellor to T? Something to think about later), and also through being able to recognise and experience that care and unconditionality more from the other people around me, and within and towards myself. By unconditionality, I mean experiencing warmth and care towards me that isn’t conditional on me doing more or less, or being special, or being especially needy or deserving in any way — the care and warmth is there for me in whatever state I’m in.
When I feel emotionally strong I feel good-enough as a person, I feel loveable and loved, I feel that I know my limits and am safe enough to consistently hold others within those limits. When I feel emotionally strong, I trust myself to notice and stop before I become brittle or wobbly, and I know that if I have to stop, it’s not because I am bad, or not good enough, but because I’m trying to be safe and consistent for myself and for the people I’m holding. When I feel emotionally strong, I know that I need to reach out to folks before I get overstretched. I know that I need spotters and people to hold me if I set out on emotionally heavy work.
I don’t always feel emotionally strong, just as I don’t always feel physically strong. Sometimes — often even — I feel very small, and scared, and weak. I think the consistency I’m learning to practice towards myself is noticing when I feel like this, and not trying to shame myself into pushing on regardless when I’m at risk of injury. There can be a huge difference between showing strength and having it. When I really push myself, sure, I can show enormous strength — lift multiple paving slabs, walk loads of miles, take on a ton of extra emotional work… But then I’m in bed and in pain, or really struggling, unable to support myself or anyone else or even walk to the shop for days. I’m unable to be consistently solid for anyone anymore, including for myself. I briefly looked strong, but the cost was that I became less strong.
Sometimes we do end up having to push beyond our limits, because of unavoidable circumstances or things that feel too important with no way to approach them differently. Sometimes we’re stuck out in the mountains in a storm and have to hike back, even though we know it’s going to hurt for days afterwards. In our minority communities it can sometimes feel like everyone is out on a hike for survival, and if we don’t push ourselves to the limit all the time, bad things will happen. But I believe that overall, consistency is more important than bursts of strength. Sustainable consistency can feel unconditional, and that is the basis for safety— ‘I am here for you and I’m not going anywhere because I’m doing everything I can to make sure that I’m not about to fall apart’. Bursts of strength can feel inherently and dangerously conditional — ‘I am only doing this because you are in such dire need, and it hurts me, and I might not be able to keep it up for very much longer’. I think a lot of us have been encouraged to think that we always have to push through and show strength, rather than build strength slowly, with gentleness, that we’re not enough or don’t care or love enough if we can’t fully meet another’s needs in each moment.
I think in our communities we can only be gentle and grow with each other if we can hold each other as consistently as possible. Within ourselves I think we can only build strength and gracefulness if we are consistently gentle with our own limits, and able to look for the spotters we need when we’re taking on challenges — and I’m certainly not saying that this is easy or even always possible. Rather than proving our love for each other, or our own worth, through demonstrations of strength, I think there is huge value through showing it with gentle consistency, supporting each other to have enough space to get stronger. I think in the long term, that’s the kind of strength we need to survive and look after one another, and to keep our communities afloat.
I also now have this song stuck in my head:
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