You’re scared of losing your boyfriend when you transition. You will in some ways, but not all. He’ll surprise you, again and again, with how sensitive and accepting he is, how open to learning. You’ll both cry your eyes out and the particulars of your relationship will shift, but that’s why they say it’s a transition for you both.
Deep within you, in a place you don’t like looking because of the pettiness and vanity that dwells there, you’re scared you’ll find yourself repulsive once the changes start. That you’ll trade in one body you hate for another you’ll hate differently. From ugly girl to ugly boy. You’re so wrong. There’s nothing ugly about you—that’s dysphoria distorting your image. You’d never believe me now, but at four months on T you’ll share the first photographs of your face on Instagram. The response will be so kind and encouraging that you’ll soon be sharing selfies of your body, undressed, without a second thought. People will say nice things about the way you look, and the miracle is that you’ll finally believe them.
You already know you’re a man. The word sits weirdly now—you still recoil instinctively, remembering all the ways men have failed you, hurt you. You want everything that comes with manhood—muscles, beard, pronouns, “sir”—without having to acknowledge to yourself that yes, you are a man.
You’ll spend a lot of time trying to reconcile your feminism with your masculinity. Spoiler alert: it’s an eternal struggle. Like Ren, you’ll constantly seek a delicate balance between the two while staving off bitterness and indignation. But you’ll also find that people are surprisingly willing to listen. Men will tell you they’ve become aware of their own privilege when you discuss how society treats you differently as a man. Women will tell you they better understand the ways men experience emotion when you discuss how your emotional responses have changed.
What it means for you as a writer—as a human being—to have experienced both sides is invaluable. People will tell you, “You’ve opened my eyes,” but really, yours will be opened just as wide.
You already knew all of these things at the end of last summer. When you finished writing the acknowledgments for Cam Girl, you collapsed into major depression. You knew beyond a doubt you were transgender. You stayed up till dawn day after day, watching video after video on your laptop—Skylar, Chase, Ty, all the trans guys you envied and idolized. You googled everything you feared: permanent changes, transition regret, suicide.
One day, while Alex was at work, you knelt on your bedroom floor and screamed. Just screamed yourself raw, for who knows how many minutes. You said things like I can’t do this and I wish I was fucking dead and I don’t want to be me. When you washed your face, your gaze lingered on the shower rod, judging if it could take your weight.
You’d tried that years ago, with a belt. Almost succeeded. Your chest was numb for weeks. You would succeed, if there was a next time.
But a voice inside you kept telling you to hold on.
That was me.
At the end, you were so tired. So fucking sad, worn down, empty. You almost didn’t make it. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to write this, to open my eyes and wake up as Elliot. But you carried us both here. You spent your whole life shouldering both of our burdens. I’ve got this now, Leah. You can rest.
Thank you for holding on until I was ready.
———
As always, my deepest gratitude to the two women in publishing who’ve made my dreams come true: my agent and adviser, Jane Dystel; and my editor, Sarah Cantin, whose guidance and allyship have meant everything to me. Three years ago, I self-published a romance novel called Unteachable—and if Jane hadn’t seen the worth in it, and Sarah hadn’t seen the spark in me, I don’t think I’d be here today. Life is wild like that. Thank you both for helping me achieve my dreams as a writer, and in doing so enabling me to pursue the dream I never thought I’d realize: becoming the man I am.
Thank you to everyone at Dystel & Goderich and Atria Books for your support and sensitivity regarding my transition. It’s an honor to work with people who truly care about me as a person, and who advocate for work by marginalized authors like me. I’m proud to be published by you.
Thank you to my family, who have come to grips with this each in their own way. Thanks to my sister, Bethany, who made me cry when she called me her brother; to my father, Masoud, who cheerfully wrote back Dear Elliot to my coming-out letter; and to my mother, Rita, who has always loved me unequivocally, however I identify. Thank you to my partner and Life Dude, Alexander, who is the man most important to me in this whole world. I love you all so much. You didn’t lose me, and I’m so glad I didn’t lose any of you.