Ugly Sweater

Imagine the worst outfit your mother ever dressed you in. You know the one. It made you feel like a fool in front of your friends. The collar scratched your neck, the sleeves were too tight, and every time you looked in the mirror, you cringed because you knew it was all wrong.

Now imagine you had to wear that outfit for the rest of your life.

Eventually, you'd get used to it. The discomfort would become white noise. It wouldn't stop bothering you—you'd just stop noticing it every second of every day. You'd wear bigger coats to hide it, but underneath, that scratchy collar would still be digging into your neck.

At 48, I decided I didn't want to live with that discomfort anymore. My sweater was my body, and I wanted to change my look. 

Putting on a binder for the first time felt like finally taking off that ugly-ass outfit. For the first time, I looked in the mirror and recognized myself. Once I knew what that felt like, I wanted it all the time. So I went for it.

What I didn't realize was that surgery wasn't going to be the hardest part. Everything afterward was. I feel better in my skin than I ever have. I'm comfortable in my body. But now there's the rest of the world to contend with.

Right after surgery, I was terrified. I was convinced I'd be chased out of Target with pitchfork-wielding bigots or some other nonsense.

The first time I went shopping alone, a stranger helped me with something simple and I cried. That tiny interaction reassured me that maybe everything would be okay. Maybe people would see what I hoped they would see—a happy, confident human finally wearing the clothes they were always meant to wear.

That hasn't always been the case.

Instead, it's been a mixed bag of lingering stares, awkward attempts to figure out my gender, and hesitation in taking my shirt off. Mind you, about 98% of the time I truly couldn't give a shit. Most days I'm more curious than offended. I'm fascinated by what people think they see, and how much of that is shaped by their own experiences rather than mine.

But the other 2%? The other 2% of the time, I just want to belong.

I want to be seen as me. Not as a puzzle to solve or a category to place. Just a person trying to be the best human I can be—for myself and for the people around me.

I want people to see my humanity. Because all I really did was take off an ugly, old, scratchy version of myself.

Some people might think I should have kept wearing it because it makes them more comfortable.  

But they’re not my mom. They didn't make that polyester sweater. She did.

 And she's the only one who's allowed to be a little sad that I finally threw it away.