Gentle tears escape my eyes as I stand frozen in front of an Ikea bathroom. My friends wait down the hall unaware of my conundrum. It’s funny, if not a bit sad, maybe even pathetic, and certainly embarrassing.
Until recently, I don’t think I could have written publicly about this sort of thing. I used to hide my shame deeply enough that even I couldn’t find it. This column isn’t about pain, misery or bathroom-related trauma in the transgender experience though; if that was all there was to it why would anybody ever choose to transition?
It’s hard to explain how it feels to look in the mirror and for the first time see yourself not as the stranger that only others around you have known, but as the person you have always known, though never dared to believe exists. It’s harder still to express the rollercoaster of losing privileges you never realized you had, trading them for an identity that is both desired and hated, often by the same people.
Despite all that – despite the shameless stares that men no longer care to hide often followed by a cruel smile, or the bizarre comments by strangers on the street – it’s worth it because I just feel right. After feeling so wrong my entire life, the alignment of my body and brain feels like an unimaginable gift.
Since as long as I was aware of the concept of gender I have felt that something was off, but I never thought for a moment that I would be able to conquer that feeling. A feeling of unease just became a part of me.
In May of 2024, I finally accepted that I was a transgender woman and by November of that year and at the age of 24 I began to medically transition. I take a pill daily to block the production of testosterone and a once-a-week shot of estrogen. The impact feels slow but is actually miraculously fast considering how long it takes for puberty the first time around.
Everybody suffers and eventually dies, but not everybody lives truthfully to themselves. I think for many of us the path to truly being ourselves can seem impossible since shame, at least for me, has felt more like the rule I have to live by, rather than something I can overcome.
If it has to be a choice between temporary embarrassment and longterm misery, it’s not much of a choice at all.
Still, that day in Ikea I again chose the men’s room. I chose the stares and confusion that I am used to, rather than the more unknown with equal potential danger.
Really the choice of which bathroom to use is more like a risk analysis than anything deeper, but I still feel a small sense of guilt that I am at times continuing the lie about who I am.
Growing up I wasn’t a particularly feminine boy. I was confused about my gender, but I was taught that boys are stronger and generally better off. The media around me only reinforced the importance of masculinity, pushing me further away from who I am.
I used to scoff at the concept of representation in the media. I wonder now if being exposed to a trans character earlier would have altered my life. I know for certain that strong female characters changed my perspective on femininity.
A glance in the mirror, a picture taken by my mom, it all felt wrong. If I was brave enough to look, I didn’t hate how he looked, but he was a stranger – a stranger in my room and a stranger among my friends and family. If there was anything I shared with that reflection it was that we were both hurting.
I was a painfully shy boy, but even my shyness seemed foreign; like I was assigned it and I had no choice in the decision. I hated myself for being shy. Before puberty I was free to choose my identity, but as my body changed I was chained to being someone else.
I accepted this person and the unease alongside it, as it seemed to be the inescapable reality. But I always held on to some small piece of hope that everybody was wrong about me – including myself.
I honestly wasn’t sure what was wrong. So on the surface I couldn’t even accept this pain as real. My life was OK as far as I could tell. I had no reason to be sad.
I don’t remember the first time I heard about the concept of being transgender, but I think I was probably pretty skeptical. It was around late high school. Either way, I don’t think I thought much of it. I was a straight man, obviously.
Still the thought stuck around someplace in my head and I remember in college thinking about the concept of gender as something beyond our bodies. If I suddenly was turned to stone, would I feel like a boy rock or a girl rock?
As much as I knew there was something wrong, it had been so long since I questioned my sexuality or gender. The chance that I had gotten it wrong seemed impossible. It made it harder that my concept of femininity at the time was so limited that even looking back now I am not sure I would have fit inside it.
Transitioning was not my first attempt to fix what was wrong. I struggled so hard to try to fix my personality, even though there was never anything wrong with it. I chose a career that demands I confront my shyness daily and eventually have largely overcome it.
But to find out what was really wrong I think I first had to break. I wish it hadn’t taken until I was 23 when a combination of personal struggles and exposure to some of the worst of humanity through my work as an Eagle-Tribune reporter made me question the point of my shame and what exactly was fueling my self hatred.
In the face of all this real ugliness in the world, the shame I felt for wanting to look prettier or more feminine felt laughable. Before I didn’t even know I wanted to be prettier or that I was bisexual, and now all of a sudden it was so obvious. It felt obvious enough that to ignore it was now impossible.
I can’t say that all that pain was necessary or brought me closer to this point. But being here now the joy I feel seems impossible, like it could have only been possible in my imagination or a movie, not real life. As much as it hurt to accept that my gender was wrong, it was also a relief. Gender dysphoria is actually rather simple to treat compared to other life-altering diagnoses.
For the most part it’s just a pill a day and an injection once a week, at least for transgender women. Both estrogen and spironolactone, the medication used to block the production of testosterone, are commonly prescribed for other medical issues. There are obviously surgeries for certain less mutable aspects, though actually getting that care in this country is easier said than done.
I used to try to shrink in photos; now my phone is full of pictures I have taken of myself. It might seem like vanity and perhaps it is, but I am still trying to convince myself it’s real and the photos help.
It’s not just about pictures, though. Having your body match up with what you feel in your heart makes everything better. Confidence comes far more easily.
The joy is even worth the fear.
It’s a bizarre thing to go from feeling invisible to being seen by many as a freak in public. By now I have gotten used to being hollered at rather than ignored, but it still is jarring and scary.
Before I was also privileged enough that elections and their consequences were usually not impacting my daily life. I had plenty of thoughts on politics, but most of them were concerns over how changes would impact others. It still feels surreal to see politicians openly attack trans people and then remember, “Oh, that’s me.”
All around the country and at every level of politics there are fights over bathrooms, insurance, the right to discriminate against transgender people. It’s absolutely exhausting just to keep up with whatever my state legislators in New Hampshire are up to and I know I am comparatively lucky to live here.
But I am not here to talk about politics or even complain about hardship in my life. The point is that even with this daily uncertainty and fear, I have never once regretted my choice to transition.
I thought misery was just my lot in life, but now with one glance in the mirror that thought becomes a distant memory. It still feels like I am living in a dream and any moment I may wake up to a familiar sadness.
I hope one day this feeling of happiness becomes normal. While I know I can’t be happy all the time, joy should never feel impossible.
Teddy Tauscher is an Eagle-Tribune reporter. Reach her at ttauscher@eagletribune.com.