The Man in the Mirror

Reflections of a year on estrogen

It’s my traniversary. One year ago today I started feminizing hormone therapy, and to celebrate I’m getting dressed up to go see the doctor.

I don’t really want to dress up just for this appointment — it’s a weekday morning, so I’ll just have to change into my work clothes afterward — but it feels like I should. I want the doctor to think I’m actually trying. Because I am trying, right?

Looking in the mirror, I see a man staring back at me. He’s there every day. I can see him brushing his short, thin, receding man hair. He has muscular man arms, narrow man hips, and a bulging man gut. He’s wearing clothes which were not made with any of those features in mind. The look he’s giving me is one of vague contempt that asks why I would ever expect to see anything else.

Then I look down, and I see a woman. I see breasts and soft, smooth skin. I see a bra under a low-cut top with tight jeans and flats. I see delicately trimmed fingernails and swaying hips. She looks good, I think, until I remember that nobody else can see her.

With a sigh, I grab my phone and keys and head downstairs to get in the car. After putting on a coat, I glance down at myself again. Now I look like a man from this angle too. Groaning, I switch my coat for a women’s jacket. It’s not as warm, but that’s fine. I only need it for half the day.

At the doctor’s office there’s a little blink of surprise when I check in and the nurse realizes I’m Amanda, and then another one when a different nurse sees me stand up after calling my name. The reaction is almost imperceptible, but I perceive it. I’m starting to regret updating the name on my medical records. It’s more awkward than reassuring.

My doctor is kind as always. I tell her I’m still not sure if I really want to transition full-time and some days it feels like I’d rather just be a man. Then in practically the same breath, I ask about switching to estrogen injections and adding progesterone to see if maybe that will give better results. Y’know, because that’s the kind of thing a man would do.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

It’s like a shot to the gut. I’m still wearing the clothes I wore to the doctor. My hair is covered and I haven’t spoken yet, but even without the most obvious gender markers he can see right through me. There, behind the lunch counter, is the man in the mirror, this time reflected in the perceptions of a random cashier.

I hate myself for thinking maybe a stranger would see what I can’t. Pushing down the pain to a familiar numbness, I order my food, not bothering to disguise my male voice. I’m intensely aware of how I must look standing there in my ridiculous outfit.

I shouldn’t be surprised by the reactions of others anymore. In the past year, no cisgender person, aside from my doctor and my therapist, has ever addressed me using female honorifics or pronouns. Not once. I am sir and he and man in every interaction of every single day. Normally I’m fine with that. I know how I look. But today I made the mistake of getting my hopes up. I thought maybe it would be different, that my outfit and appearance might be feminine enough to shift someone’s perception. It was a foolish hope.

A few minutes later, my food is brought to me by a different employee. “Here you go, sir.”

In my car, concealed within the parking garage a few blocks from my office, I’m changing clothes again. I can’t help but reflect on the nature of presentation.

It feels like I’m not trying hard enough. I’m not putting in the effort to communicate woman to the people I meet. Maybe if I wore makeup, or a wig, or a dress, it would get the point across. Clearly my comfortable jeans and shirts aren’t up to the task.

But that’s what this is all about, right? Comfort? The whole reason I started taking estrogen was to be comfortable with my body and my place in the world. I can’t do that if I’m just exchanging one costume for another.

I briefly consider going all out one night, really putting on a show, just to see what it’s like to not have the man in the mirror reflected back at me by everyone I encounter. Then I remember how I felt at lunch and decide against it. If it hurts this much when I’m only trying to be myself, how much more devastating would it be to make an even greater effort and still fail? I couldn’t handle that. Not trying too hard is my defense mechanism.

Meanwhile, I’ve finished changing for work. I leave the clothes I want to wear in my car and trudge down the street, looking like everybody else and yet feeling out of place. I sigh quietly every time I walk past a woman. Bullshit societal expectations aside, she can go outside dressed however she wants. She’ll be called ma’am regardless, and she doesn’t even have to try, because she looks like a woman. Because she is a woman.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

My daughter runs up to me and hugs my legs, excited that I’m home from work. She’s so happy to see me. I’m happy to see her too. She’s like a little walking rainbow making everyone who sees her want to smile. And she loves her daddy.

I can see myself reflected in my children, and especially so in my son. He looks identical to the pictures of me when I was his age. Sometimes I wonder if he’ll grow up to become the man I was supposed to be.

Disentangling myself, I go upstairs to change clothes for the third time today. After a long day of seeing the man in the mirror, it would be so easy to just keep being him when I get home, yet here I am removing his ugly clothes and putting on my casual shorts and shirt for the last few hours of the day. Nobody is going to see me tonight except my family, so this doesn’t feel like getting dressed up. It just feels like putting on comfy clothes.

I’m a man at home too. We tried changing that, but it didn’t take. My role is husband and father. That’s all anybody wants me to be, and I’m too tired to resist. I’m not sure I even want to resist. I feel like daddy. And I feel like someone’s son and brother and husband. I feel like a man. It’s hard not to when that’s all I see reflected back at me.

When enough time has passed, maybe my role will change. But that won’t happen until I and everyone around me believes I’m a woman, and that won’t happen until they see a woman standing in front of them. Seeing is believing.

A few hours later, just before bedtime, I’m staring into the bathroom mirror again. He’s there, of course. He’s always there. I’m there. The man I see is me. I don’t know why it’s so hard to recognize that fact.

There are pills sitting on the counter, waiting for me. It’s day 366. I reach for the bottle, and I watch as the man in the mirror takes one more hit of estrogen.