2020 Was My Queerest Year Yet
And I plan on making 2021 even queerer.
Saying that 2020 was a year filled with massive change has become something of a cliché at this point. But I am ending this year in a completely different place than where I started it, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
In a story published about a year ago on January 1st, 2020, I described myself as a “bisexual woman-aligned person.” That was how I identified at the time, even though I felt an inkling that it wasn’t quite right.
I knew I wasn’t a heterosexual cisgender woman like many people assumed, but I hadn’t entirely come to terms with who I really was.
I thought I had during the late spring and early summer when I realized that most of the attraction to men I had experienced was the result of compulsory heterosexuality. So, I began to call myself a nonbinary lesbian.
For a while, I was almost certain that this label was the right one for me. Still, something felt off. Although the word “lesbian” wasn’t quite as feminine as the word “woman,” to me it sort of implied womanhood to a degree that made me uncomfortable. But I pushed those feelings aside for a few months.
Even after years of gender dysphoria and confusion, I had never considered medically or socially transitioning until one Saturday in August. And it was all because I had randomly decided to shave that day.
2020 was the first year in over a decade in which I didn’t diligently shave my legs and armpits every other day. Being in quarantine, as well as dating someone who didn’t mind body hair, gave me the freedom to feel comfortable not touching a razor.
So, I’m not sure why I decided to shave my armpits one day. I think I wanted to see if it would make me not smell quite as sweaty in the Texas summer. But the instant I stepped out of the shower, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Seeing my armpits completely smooth and hairless for the first time in half a year was disorienting. It felt like it wasn’t even me I was looking at. It felt wrong.
I remember spending the rest of the day feeling depressed about anything and everything and being unable to put my finger on exactly why. Maybe seeing my shaved skin reminded me of the times I’d tried and failed to convince myself I was a woman.
The visceral discomfort I felt at being reminded of my “femininity” made me seriously consider transitioning for the first time.
For the next few weeks, a strange depression gripped me. I would burst into tears at the slightest inconveniences. Sometimes I would even start crying over something that was supposed to make me happy.
In the fall, my partner ordered us a pair of matching rings with rainbow stripes. It was a sweet gift, and I wore the ring on a chain around my neck for a while, even if I had to hide it under my shirt around people I suspected were homophobic.
But one day, I found that I couldn’t bring myself to wear the ring anymore. When my partner asked me why, I started crying. I realized that I felt uncomfortable wearing something rainbow, something that symbolized a same-gender relationship, because my partner is a woman and I am not.
Fortunately, my partner has been extremely supportive throughout all of this. In fact, she was the reason I’d started to become okay with entertaining my confusing gender thoughts. She wasn’t offended that I didn’t want to wear the ring she’d gotten me.
The pervasive awfulness came to a head in November. I watched a recent video from one of my favorite YouTubers, a trans man named Jackson Bird. He released a beautiful video showcasing the past five years of his life since he had begun his transition. That video made me cry harder than I could ever remember crying.
Watching someone fully transitioning from female to male made me realize that I wanted those exact same experiences for myself.
It was then that I knew that if I wanted to truly be happy, I needed to transition.
Since then, I have taken baby steps to make that a reality. I told my primary care physician that I was experiencing gender dysphoria, and he referred me to a gender therapist. I brainstormed ideas for new first and middle names, and it didn’t take long at all for me to settle on Daniel Jackson. I came out to my partner and my two closest friends, and they’ve been as supportive as they could possibly be.
I know that even though the road ahead of me will be tough, it will be worth every struggle to finally have other people see me for who I really am.
As awful as 2020 has been for most people in almost every regard, I’m personally thankful for the journey it has put me through. It has been rough, but now I know what I must do.
In 2021, I plan on coming out to my family and my workplace. I’m very lucky to have a generally tolerant family. Plus, most of my coworkers seem like they would accept me (even if it might take a while for everyone to get used to my new name and pronouns). The thought terrifies me, but I know it’s what I have to do.
I also want to take some steps toward medically transitioning. Eventually, I want to get top surgery, because my breasts are so large that I will absolutely never be read as a man unless I get them surgically removed. I would also like to take testosterone so I could get a voice deep enough for people to stop calling me “ma’am” on the phone.
Before this year, I’d always felt like I was sort of waiting for the rest of my life to begin, but I couldn’t tell what the catalyst of that change was going to be. But in 2020, I finally figured it out.
2021 will be the year that I will finally reveal my true self to most of the people in my life. I will begin the process of becoming who I feel I really am.
It’s going to be terrifying, but I simultaneously can’t wait to get started.
