Now You Know Someone Who Is Trans.

I want you to know that I'm becoming the person I've always been.

For those of you that know me, or have known me in the past, it may come as a shock to discover that I am transgender. Others that have known me might not be so surprised after all. To the people I've come out to one-on-one, I've had a bit of both reactions. In some ways it was a revelation even to me, but more importantly, it has been such a liberation and relief to truly come to terms with understanding myself.

While I certainly don't feel the need to explain or justify my existence, I'm keenly aware that among Americans, latest statistics show that only 20% of people actually know someone who is trans. For many of the people I know, I have a strong feeling I will be the first person that they've met who is trans. Even those that do know someone may have very little knowledge of what it even means to be trans, the nature of gender dysphoria, and quite frankly, a lack of education and understanding was a large part of why it took so long for me to come to grips with who I am and the lifetime of experiences that made me feel alienated and confused about myself. For a deeper look into what the trans experience is like, or what gender dysphoria is all about, I have been referring people to the Gender Dysphoria Bible. It's not a perfect resource, but it's a good introduction.

I hardly want to represent the experience of all trans women (or trans men and non-binary folks, for that matter), but I would say that it can be incredibly challenging for a trans person to understand themselves when society has forced us not to see ourselves and has hidden us both from ourselves and the general public. I don't believe I even heard the word transgender until I was an adult– I heard plenty of slurs growing up, but not the specific word transgender, let alone what it truly meant, or the understanding that the feelings I've felt almost every day of my life were the culmination of gender dysphoria. I didn't know anyone who was trans, I was surrounded by transphobic people and community, and the media, my window into wider society, was no help at all.

I remember being simultaneously fascinated with all gender non-conforming and trans-adjacent things I would catch in music and TV growing up. However, usually it was presented in such a foreign or grotesque way that it caused a sense of shame so much of the time whenever I could approach the questioning side within myself, yet I was still drawn to all of it, and I didn't understand why. I never identified with the man-in-a-dress trope that is a perpetual sitcom joke. The representations in horror movies are so much worse. And the few documentaries or news interviews I'd see on TV, while captivating, were presented in such a tragic way that they induced a sense of shame, even when I couldn't admit to myself that the reason I was so fascinated was that I was identifying with these people I was watching. There's a documentary on Netflix that recently came out that wonderfully tackles the issue of trans representation (and the lack of it) in media. It's called Disclosure.

Identifying with alternative music, like punk, grunge, and emo, gave me a place to explore and hide at the same time and in a relatively safe way. I'm not the only one who found a haven there. I see echoes of my experience when I listen to interviews with Laura Jane Grace of the punk band Against Me!.

For those that don't know, I grew up in a rural area of the country that was not safe for LGBTQIA+ people. We were taught white supremacist and cishetero-normative propaganda in schools and in our churches. People I knew well were close friends with our US representative, one of the most notorious contemporary white supremacists in congress until recently. It was not safe for my classmates to come out as gay, let alone transgender. In some ways I'm angry that it was such an atmosphere that forced me to repress myself so deeply, and in other ways I am grateful that I wasn't able to understand myself until I was in a safer environment. It would have been crushing to know and be deeply afraid of the harm others around me might inflict. Even questioning and exploring under the guise of 'alternative' culture, where I could paint my nails black and wear my sister's clothes to school and grow my hair long did not always end up great, and I was taunted even by people closest to me for being gay, though I've never been attracted to men, they just assumed I was. Surprise, I wasn't gay, at least in the way they thought. This reminds me of a couple of times I told some high school classmates how cool and how much better life would be to be a lesbian woman, and I got some strange looks– and somehow it still took me till I was an adult to really understand what was going on with myself. It didn't occur to me that most people don't have these feelings, especially so deep-seated.

My earliest memories are of gender dysphoria and are infused with a sense of understanding who I felt I was and who I wanted to be while also learning from society that it was expected that I needed to suppress and hide this part of me. I didn't care about Barbies or princesses, but even though I had a He-Man action figure, what I really wanted to do was play She-Ra with my big sister. I was actually insulted by many Disney movies and felt defensive about the idea that a girl needed rescuing by some guy. I was evidently born a feminist, too. As a kid, being a boy just seemed like a phase, like some transitory part of life until I get to be what I actually am. I would ask my mom what she would have named me if I was born a girl, and it was so important to me because I knew that I needed to remember, not to forget, to hold onto the name, for the day that I get to be a girl. I remember playing dress-up and looking forward to the day that I would actually be able to dress in clothes like these, and then I started to remember that this might not actually be the case for me, as I started recognizing what society expected of me, but I was small, and I would push away the sadness and let myself think, "You don't know what will happen in the future. Maybe there will be a way."

While I could recognize myself when I was little, and adolescence simultaneously brought repression and a greater recognition of societies crushing expectations, against which I tried to rebel, it was adulthood that did the greatest number on me. As an adult, I've attempted to live as an ally, accepting, loving, and not in spite of who people are, but for who people are. What's been most difficult about this, though, is that while I could love others for who they were, I was not loving myself.

I've always felt that I had a secret, even if I didn't know what it was. In a room full of boys or men, I've not necessarily felt unwelcome or that I didn't have a right to be there, but every single time I felt that they were going to discover my secret. I felt it was so obvious that I wasn't one of them. I knew I wasn't one of them. I've always known I wasn't one of them, even when I didn't know who I actually was. I knew I wasn't one of them, and they were going to find out because it was so obvious to me and it was going to be obvious to them and I was going to be discovered and outed. What is strange is that I could never admit to myself what the secret was, the obvious thing that they were going to discover, and again, in part, because I didn't understand that my feelings were valid and I did not know that this was a result of being trans. I just knew that I wasn't one of them and that I would never be, and more importantly, I would never want to be.

I sure tried to hide it though. Between people telling me to lower my voice, don't cross my legs, don't stand certain ways, walk certain ways, talk certain ways, write certain ways, play certain ways, say certain words… the list goes on… I knew well how to perform the role of a man, even if I rebelled when I could and let off steam when possible. That's all it's been though. I was playing a role and wearing a costume. I think if there's one thing that I'd like to get across to people I know who have little to no experience with people who are trans, it is this. There's often a sense from the outside that people who are trans are putting on a costume and a performance to become something that they are not. This is essentially the opposite of what it means to be trans. A trans woman such as myself has been raised to bury who they are, and act like a man– act like a man. Society has told us to pretend to be something we are not. Trans people who move forward with accepting themselves and presenting themselves as their true selves are throwing away the act, ending the performance, and they choose to become who they actually are. What might be seen from the outside as something new, is not something new at all, but the original self.

To be clear, because this is all so difficult to articulate, I am proud of myself regardless of gender, the person I've lived as, and the work I've done over the years. I've gotten to do groundbreaking and lifesaving work around the world as a humanitarian. I've been able to work as a creative in multiple fields, most notably as a filmmaker and video game producer. I have the most amazing, wonderful wife in the world, and four of the most amazing, wonderful kids, as well. We live on our homestead in Maine and grow our own food. I have a fierce political outlook and a critical and unique world view that I continue to cultivate through study, work, and experience. I am proud of myself. If I were to continue on as I have always been doing, I would still be proud of myself. The big problem, though, is that I still wouldn't love myself, and I wouldn't be fair to myself or those around me, because without being able to live as myself, I've been miserable with myself, and I haven't been authentic to myself, let alone those who love me. I love the people around me so dearly, and I enjoy every moment with them, but I have an incredibly difficult time enjoying being with myself when I have repressed myself so deep down. I have my convictions and my love to give, but I have been left with so little of my own self to give, that the time had come to actually confront and accept myself. There was no choice. There was no option.

I am who I am.

From here on out, I plan to shed the costume I've been wearing for so long and to live more authentically. It will take time to fully find myself again, but life is a process. There are no ends, only means.

Those that are concerned may want to know that Lindsey and I are doing wonderfully. I want to add that when I, more terrified than I have ever been in my life, terrified to lose her, finally came out to Lindsey, the first thing she did was to hug me and tell me that she is so sorry that it took me so long to find myself. We've always been incredibly close, but since that day, our love for each other has grown to greater heights than either of us could have imagined. As a married, also trans, family member said about his relationship when he came out, our love transcends gender. We are doing great. So are the kids. We have a home filled with love, and that’s all that matters.