About

I’ve always had a deep connection to my femininity, even before I fully understood what that meant. It was always there, quietly waiting for me to embrace it. But for the longest time, I had no clue what to do with it.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Walk up to someone and say, “Hey, I think there’s a woman living in my head, and she’s dying to come out?” Yeah, no. That wasn’t happening. So instead, I did what any resourceful, confused, slightly dramatic kid would do. I kept it a secret. And like most of us, that secret started in my mother’s closet.

Now, let’s be honest. Every crossdresser has a story. You know the one. The first time sneaking into a sister’s or mother’s things, heart pounding, convinced that the walls had ears, and that if you even breathed too loudly, you’d be caught. And of course, I got caught. Because of course I did.

I still remember the way my mother looked at me, like she had walked in on something she really wished she hadn’t. Shock, disappointment, a little bit of what do I even say to this? It was all there. And me? I froze. Deer in headlights. Time stopped. I’m pretty sure I forgot how to breathe for a solid ten seconds. Then came the questions, the ones I wasn’t ready for, the ones I didn’t even have answers to. “Why are you wearing that? What are you doing?” At the time, I didn’t even know. I just knew it felt right. But the way she reacted made it clear that whatever this was, it wasn’t something I was supposed to be doing. So, I did what I thought I had to do. I buried it. Told myself it was just a phase. That if I ignored it long enough, it would go away. Spoiler alert. It didn’t.

The thing about denying who you are is that it doesn’t actually fix anything. It just leaves you feeling empty, like something’s missing but you can’t quite put your finger on it. And that’s how I spent years, going through the motions, playing the part, convincing myself that I was doing the right thing, even though deep down, I knew I wasn’t.

But here’s the thing about the truth. It doesn’t go away just because you ignore it. It sits there, waiting. Sometimes patiently, sometimes not so much. Eventually, it catches up to you. For me, it wasn’t some big, dramatic aha moment. It was more like a slow realization, one small step at a time. Little moments where I let myself feel instead of fight. Moments where I stopped worrying about what I was supposed to be and started figuring out what actually made me happy. And now? Now I’m finally at peace with it. I’m not saying I have it all figured out. I don’t think any of us really do. But I do know this. I’m done feeling like I need to explain myself. I don’t need a reason. I don’t need permission. I just need to be. And yeah, looking back, I can laugh at it now. At how terrified I was, how I thought one wrong move would ruin everything. But honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because all those awkward, messy, what the hell am I doing? moments led me here. And here? Here feels right.