NAVIGATING THE JOURNEY OF TRANSITIONING: Embracing Change, Challenges, and Growth

Before I understood the concept of time, I somehow understood something was amiss. Before school, before my parents surrendered my freedom from commitment and tossed me in with a bunch of other paste-craved kindergarteners, I knew at a fundamental level that something was awry, that what I was being told didn’t align with how I felt I was.

I was the oldest, the firstborn on one side of my family, long ahead of the gaggle of distant cousins that would come years later. This made me the centrepiece, a doughy bounty for overly doting grandparents and grateful, neophyte parents. “Here’s my baby boy!” my Nana would colourfully cry out, hued with a faint Scottish accent, seared cigarettes, and the pine-like fermented juniper berries distilled down in Nana’s favourite adult-oriented drink. Every time my parents made the trek from wherever-we-happened-to-be-living-that-year over to her colossal home in then-rural North York, she made a big fuss about this genial ball of mush. My father’s mother, a petite Serbian woman, would borderline threaten my parents if she didn’t get to see her “grandbaby boy!” with at least the same amount of face time as my Nana. This early attention was addictive. It suited me just fine. I became a fiend for attention. I didn’t know why I was getting it; I only knew I owned their attention for so long as I dialled up the cute. Unsure of why I was the focus of attention, equally bewildered as to the motives of these gargantuan bipeds that called themselves my parents, I routinely brought my A-game for the grandparents, aunts and uncles, and the parade of friends my parents would present me before. Was this relationship reciprocal? Why were they feeding me, keeping me warm, habitually wiping my butt? What were they getting out of this if it wasn’t the pride in showing off this otherwise shiftless baby? Did I need to dance for my dinner? The great mystery that baffled me as a baby.

Before my baby brother came along and fouled up my glorious celebrity among our family, I soaked up all the attention I could muster. Loving and owning the centre stage with some of the greatest hits; First Tooth, First Steps, and the venerated First Words. Is there anything more monumental in a parent’s or grandparent’s journey than the firstborn’s first word? I was a trailblazer, the main feature, but there was a growing anguish that I kept caged. My brother would make an appearance nearly two years later, and cousins came along with a baffling consistency suggesting that adult humans only mate with the same frequency as Vulcans on their Pon Farr; my notoriety dulled, but the thorny label of “boy” remained.

At some point, before I was sequestered by my preschool jailer, I began to realize that there was a burgeoning discomfort with being called “boy” or “son” or any of the other quintessential gender-specific monikers associated with masculinity. My earliest memories aren’t so specific as to detail how I came to this realization or the precise pain and general anxiety that was beginning to develop. Still, I somehow already knew that these thoughts were treacherous. If I were ever to act on them, my glory as the family’s firstborn and much-beloved soubrette would be at risk-especially now that my parents had a backup and my grandparents had a whole chorus of grandbabies to choose from. 

The next fourteen years were a struggle. As most transgender individuals who recognized their gender dysphoria young can attest to, there were cycles of acquisition and purge. Confidence, resolve and then the inescapable dread and depression. Now, decades after I transitioned, when I scroll through old photos of me as a child, behind the few images that exist of me smiling, I can indeed recall the precise point where I was in my agony-in-recognition. With little difficulty, I can remember exactly where I was in my vacillating. My doubt was never whether I was actually cursed with a body that was incongruous with my spirit or my psyche; it was always about overcoming that fear and resistance from friends and family. From the ages of four to eighteen, I contended with the Sisyphean task of coming out to everyone I cared about, many of whom wouldn’t or couldn’t understand. For fourteen years, I struggled with living authentically and being denied. For fourteen years, I contended with how to communicate this to my parents, who had already clarified that “[I] was a boy, and that is that!” For the entirety of my childhood, I redirected my rage, confusion, and disappointment inward. I entombed it until that noxious angst and animosity began to eat away at that person who hunted for attention and love. 

It wasn’t until I entered university that I understood and acknowledged my inner despair, resentment, and disappointment over the incongruity between my body and mind. Coming out was a nightmare! I came out as transgender long before websites and YouTube videos outlined the dos and don’ts. I fouled it up in nearly every way possible. Some friends couldn’t handle this news and walked away; others took weeks, months, or years to accept. As a promise to my mother, I saw a social worker at my university. That did not end well. This woman discounted my monumental achievement of socially transitioning and cautioned me by insisting that “[I] don’t make my new gender identity” a “big part of who [I am].” Essentially, this social worker was asking me to keep one foot in and downplay my gender identity or gender expression for the ‘comfort of my friends and family.’ Breaking a promise to my mother, my best friend, I stopped seeing that woman and continued to clumsily transition-a process that is never really complete.

The Importance of Finding Support and Building Community

Finding support and building community during a transition is essential because transitions often involve uncertainty, challenges, and emotional upheaval. 

When I came out, the disorientation and turmoil that defined me as a child were in equal measure during my calamitous coming out. After coming out to a few close friends, many (mostly boyfriends) walked away from our friendship, with a few girlfriends that stuck it out with me. To borrow a relatively modern term, many fair-weather friends ghosted me as they tried and ultimately failed to come to terms with my being transgender. The few friends that remained were the sole source of my strength. These fantastic (women), were my emotional resilience; they validated, motivated and supported me, and there was stability in knowing that someone had my back.

Transitions can be isolating, and having a small, supportive network provided me with a safe space to share feelings, vent my frustrations, and seek reassurance. All of that was invaluable. Having these women around, even if they couldn’t understand my journey, at least empathized, ultimately reducing my loneliness and fostering emotional stability.

The Courage It Takes to Embrace An Authentic Self

Before I came out, I was never truly happy, and any attempts at happiness were only shadows on a cave wall, distorted, murky caricatures and sounds of close approximation to actual happiness.

It took more than a decade to perceive a higher sense of who I was, the comfort in letting people see who I am, and being OK with them not being OK (with me). My advice for those living with this sort of secret, don’t be a prisoner to someone else’s sense of who you are or should be. Embracing your authentic self is essential because it allows you to live a life of fulfillment, integrity, and genuine connection.

Through my transition, by traversing that red-hot coal, solitary and with the occasional misstep, I learned to own my own authentic self; to find my inner and outer peace; and that growth often begins where fear ends. For those reading this who may not be living their own truth, let go of that fear and take ownership of your happiness. I promise you’ll come out of this a better, stronger, and happier person.

A book you might consider reading: “Growing Up Trans: In Our Own Words” Edited by: Dr. Lindsay Herriot M.ed Ph.D & Kate Fry. (I have provided a link to the book on Amazon. This is an affiliate link.)

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