I Can Finally Experience Joy

Choosing to listen to my body, even (and especially) when its direction defied logical explanation.

I have listened to my body — not my rational judgment — to get where I am today. An awareness of physical responses has served as the primary guiding force throughout the process of gender questioning, accepting myself, and beginning transition. I have just completed my fourth week of feminizing hormone therapy and thus far, this has been the best decision I have ever made.

A tectonic plate within my psyche shifted perhaps a week ago, not in the form of any specific “effect” that I had read and reread on countless lists, but something entirely outside the bounds of any preconceived notion. It is a change I could never have anticipated because I was not aware of it as a viable possibility, much less would I have been able to convey it through any language available to me at the time.

The state of being conscious inside of my body feels right. It never felt right before, but now it does. There is a lightsomeness that permeates all sensation and an energy that engenders a degree of newfound optimism. I can finally experience joy.

A horizon becomes visible as I bask in the sunlit scenery of this previously unknown viewpoint. I can also observe the circuitous, at times treacherous path taken to arrive here, and I am able to chart my navigational progression. Each step of the way originated as a fork in the road that resulted in my choosing to listen to my body, even and especially when its direction defied logical explanation.

I bought my first blouse from a consignment store a few blocks away from my apartment. I shifted awkwardly while waiting at checkout, summoning all of my gumption to ignore that familiarly protective voice in my head who had already sounded the alarm in response to this perceived indiscretion.

It sternly reproached me for pursuing something that would signify nonconformity. If I kept this nonsense up, I would certainly be persecuted, subject to exile, and then of course wander aimlessly before dying of starvation in the savannah like my similarly ostracized forebears.

As the warning signals blared thunderously I remained resolute, continuing to shift awkwardly as I approached the cashier. I evaded eye contact during the transaction, retraced my steps while walking those same few blocks, locked my door, and consequently closed all my blinds upon arriving safely inside my apartment. Miraculously, after a cursory “male to female size conversion” search on the internet, the blouse fit.

And no, it did not look good.

I stared at myself in the mirror and unambiguously knew that I did not look good in it. Moreover, I had absolutely no clothes that I could fashionably wear with it. Nonetheless, I could not suppress the smile that automatically emerged at the sight of that reflection staring back at me. Wearing that blouse felt right.

Many months later I was sitting in an in-person consultation with a certified laser technician as she discussed the process of hair removal. I had called earlier that day, assuming to end the call by marking my calendar sometime in the not-too-distant-but-not-too-proximate future. But there had been a cancellation.

And so, sitting slack-jawed and once again shifting awkwardly, when I asked about scheduling our first session, I once more envisioned scheduling a date cozily nestled in the amorphous time of not the here and now; a date that would provide the satisfaction of knowing that I was taking steps to do something without the obligation of immediately having to do it. But there was availability. That next morning. At 8 AM. The universe had called my bluff.

I showed up without even the crutch of my morning caffeine intake and left one hour later, having accrued the knowledge of what it feels like to be shot repeatedly with a laser. Upon looking in the mirror I saw, instead of a glisteningly smooth face and chest, only large swaths of red bumps; and then I spent the remainder of the day familiarizing myself with the aroma of burnt hair.

But very soon thereafter, while wearing a purple deep scoop neck shirt, purchased from a different consignment store, I finished washing my hands and caught a glimpse of myself at an angle that showed me a body that I had never seen before.

In that moment I grappled with the overwhelming inkling that some force had freed me from a prison that I had never been able to even recognize. This was my chest, and it was a part of my body.

At the time, each step presented itself to me as a leap into an abyss from which I would never return. But in reality, every small choice I have made on this journey has imbued me with a greater sense of clarity regarding where I want to go next, and has gradually facilitated my coming back into contact with the person I have always known myself to be.

The decision to commence hormone replacement therapy seemed, correctly, like a much bigger one than the purchasing of a blouse or even the removal of facial and body hair. And some part of me does wish that I could provide a tidy list of reasons that neatly illuminates why I decided to pursue this.

But I did not have that list then and even now I can barely explicate the precise combination of factors that impacted my decision. It ultimately came down to a simple truth that echoed from the core of my being:

I do not want to die without knowing an alternative to boymode.

Once that unshakeable realization bubbled up as a conscious thought, I knew that the decision to not go down this path would swell into the kind of “what if’’ question that would ceaselessly haunt me. And in terms of future regret, I cannot picture myself becoming too upset with trying something in an attempt to be happier and to live more authentically.

I am eager to try other new things. Upon looking back, it seems that I had to relegate myself to the mere observance of life due to the bludgeoning weight of feeling like an unwelcome stranger deeply burrowed behind the enemy lines of a testosteronic dictatorship.

A dear friend recently asked me what I am “most looking forward to about being a woman.” This remains a question I find both challenging and important. I want to use this newfound peace to participate in the world in a manner that inspires meaningful action. I want to express my heart fully, share myself with people more openly and honestly, and engage with those closest to me in a mutually loving way.

And yes, I am looking forward to these things. I look forward to knowing myself more intimately, and uncovering facets of Mila that have lain dormant through many a frozen winter. I look forward to orienting myself to my environment in a way that will help facilitate happiness and well-being.

But the truth is, I do not know what I am most looking forward to. There is a strong possibility that what will most enliven me in three months is something that I cannot even fathom at this time. I am simply listening to my body and letting it take me where my heart longs to go.

I do not know the trajectory of this path or where precisely it will lead me, but more and more it seems that both journey and destination are converging to create a space I can only call home. I do not know what any of this will look like specifically and I am basically figuring all of this out as I go; and that is okay.

But I do know that I can finally experience joy, and it feels pretty good.

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