Unencumbered: grappling with the change of state

I haven’t been writing much. Here, hardly at all, as some of you might have noticed. But I’m also struggling to keep up my personal journaling, my “Morning Pages” routine.

Some reasons are practical. Life has gotten busier for me, almost hectic sometimes, in positive, fulfilling ways as well as in very stressful ways. First, it was the move from the suburban area where I had been living for over a year & a half and where I felt that my soul was dying or, at least, being stifled. Then, it was the summer & autumn trips — some wonderful adventures with my buddy Bert, some traveling by myself, the lovely visit with my gay runner friend in Minnesota, the climbing trip this past weekend. But also, the horrible stress at work, being marginalized and micro-managed and ostracized. The ensuing mental health issues and current FMLA leave from work to recover and hunt for a new job to start ASAP. Many dark days and darker nights, terrible moments of desperation where, if it hadn’t been for the lifeline of friends and climbing, I don’t know how I would have made it through.

I often had things to do — job hunt, prepare for interviews, go running before it got too hot, meet up with friends for some outdoor climbing — that kept me from writing here or even in my journal in the mornings.

But it wasn’t just the practical aspects keeping me from writing. It was — and still is — also the difficulty of parsing out some specific topic or emotion that is clear enough, or not too overwhelming, that I can actually write it out. Emotions and events have been feeling either too overwhelming or too new and still vague or unclear or confusing for me to even start fleshing them out in words.

The thing is, I am really starting to live my life as the man that I am. And I’m grappling with so many unknowns, so much new territory, that I can hardly put it into words, hardly wrap my head around it all.

When I took that huge leap of faith over a decade ago, moving from Europe to California, I effectively liberated myself and put myself on the path to becoming my authentic self wholly. But having been so stifled for over three decades, I had little idea of what my authentic, whole self truly was or could be. The six years I spent in California were a wonderful, albeit often very difficult, exploration of the world and myself, of who I really am, of who I could really be. And when I moved to Colorado nearly five years ago, I knew I was starting a new phase of my life but I didn’t realize what that really was or what it would really entail. I didn’t realize that by changing state geographically in the U.S., I was also going to change “state” in society by changing my name, my body, my gender.

Until only very recently, I hadn’t realized how much my first four years here in Colorado really were a limbo, a liminal phase for me. I took precarious, temporary jobs that, while intellectually fulfilling and practical in their flexibility, paid very little. And I did this not only because I was truly trying to pursue a career in academia and believed idealistically in those positions, but also because they allowed me to use a lot of my time and energy to continue discovering & redefining myself, as a climber, on the one hand, and as a man, on the other. A lot of time and energy went into paperwork for name & gender-marker changes, into surgeries and recoveries — much more time and energy than I ever thought would be necessary going into it. But also, and maybe even more, time and energy into getting used to, adapting to, living in the world as an adult man and, in particular, as an adult queer man, with hardly any guidance.

Now, for the first time in my adult life, I am showing up professionally (e.g., at job interviews) as a man, instead of as a girl or woman or nonbinary AFAB person. As I more and more often climb with people whom I’ve met only in the past year or two, I am assumed to be “just one of the guys”, simply one of the men in the group.

The unjust situation at my current job which is forcing me to seek a new position ASAP, is also putting me in the position of finally presenting and having to define myself professionally as the man that I am and want to be.

The loss of old climbing buddies who knew me before and during the medical steps of my gender journey, who met me when I still looked like a female, is putting me in the position of redefining myself as a climber, too. On the one hand, I am technically a better and more confident climber than I was four years ago so, when I meet new climbing partners, I don’t automatically go into a more “subordinate” or “learner” role like I used to, which was hard to shake off and I was almost trapped in with my old climbing buddies. Now, although most of the people I climb with are still better than myself, the gap is smaller and I have more experience and confidence so I can show up as a peer. On the other hand, though, I’m not only showing up as a peer on the climbing level (technique, skills, experience, crag knowledge, choice of routes); I am also presenting, and being read, as a man. Wholly, with no doubt, with no previous image of me to superimpose on the current one.

This past weekend, I went on a climbing trip with a loose friend (Brad, whom I met through my French climbing buddy) and three other men whom I didn’t know. Brad knows I’m trans because our common friend, the French climber, was the buddy who took me to my top-surgery in January 2023. But Brad has never actually seen what I looked like “before”: he’s only seen me in this past year & a half, and he invited me on this climbing trip specifically because it was a “guys’ trip” (the two wives that might have joined specifically didn’t come because of the gender aspect). As the five of us sat around the campfire on Saturday night, I had one of the profoundest senses of belonging, still mixed with some disbelief, of just being one of the guys. The three climbers who had never met me before this weekend had no idea that I am trans. And still have no idea. I can pass so wholly now that it is truly up to me disclose it if and when I choose to.

And it’s the same at work with the job interviews I’m doing, and with the queer running group that I sometimes join on Sunday mornings. At the latter, I’ve noticed that the cis gay men (who compose the majority of the queer runners group) read me — i.e., look at me and treat me — just as another gay man. With them, too, it’s up to me disclose that I am trans if and when I choose to.

Being trans, and having been socialized & perceived for so long as a female, is such a huge part of my identity and experience that it’s hard for me to “just let it go”. The friendships with people who knew me before & during the medicalization of my gender journey still feel very special and precious — to the extent that not being in touch anymore with several climbing buddies who knew me “before & during” felt, and sometimes still feels, like a terribly painful loss. It certainly always will be a loss, at least partly, because they were such good friends, people I loved dearly and will always miss, to a certain extent.

But this “new phase”, this “change of state” that somehow was feeling forced upon me both professionally and socially/emotionally, is actually also a huge liberation, an incredible opportunity for me to really start living my life unencumbered.

I can now define & present myself as a professional, as a climber, as a runner, with this body, simply as a man until/unless I want to disclose more.

I hardly know what to do with this freedom, I’m still trying to grapple with it. But freedom it is. And I have earned it for myself.

Words fall short

“I know he’s drawn to me”, I cried through my tears as I sat on the carpeted floor in my living room with Yali’s thin arms around me. 

She held me, lovingly, crouching beside me, as the sobs shook me. 

It was such a relief to cry, to cry in the arms of a friend who feels like a sister, letting all inhibitions down, allowing my feelings to actually come through as my head, forever in charge and looking out for me, let down its guard for a few moments. 

I’m always trying to explain things, to put them into words, into categories in my head, to protect my heart. Hardly ever allowing myself to just feel. 

But sometimes, words fall short. Sometimes, there simply are no words, no categories, no explanations. 

I don’t have adequate words for what I feel for my buddy Bert. 

This is not a crush. I am not “attracted to” Bert nor am I “enamored of” him nor do I see him as “perfect” (on the contrary!). I am not “in love with” him. To say that I “like” him is correct but insufficient, limited, it doesn’t explain the depth and breadth and complexity of my feelings for him. But to say that I “love” him feels inadequate, too, almost like “too much” or “too soon”. 

I want to be with Bert. That’s the closest I can come to trying and putting my feelings into words. I am drawn to him, I want to spend time with him, I want to get to know him better, I want to get close. In what way exactly, I don’t know. And why exactly, I don’t know, either. Except for saying that I really like the way I feel when I’m with him. I like how the energy, the dynamics, the vibe between us feels when we’re spending time together. More than the energy or dynamics or vibe with anyone else, at the moment, and anyone else that I’ve interacted with for a long time. 

But here I am again, trying to put my feelings into words, trying to explain to myself — and to the world, to my friends who maybe cannot understand the depth of my pain as they try to put it into their normative, allosexual, alloromantic view of relationships — how I feel about Bert. 

When I came home from having spent a few hours with Bert last Sunday — a hike and then dinner in downtown together — my head was almost completely offline, my feelings, my body, and my heart having mostly taken over. And what my gut felt was that my feelings for Bert are mutual, that he’s drawn to me as I am to him. But my head was telling me that it’s impossible because, as far as I know, he’s straight and I now “look like a man”. If I had still “looked like a woman”, I would have had no doubt about Bert’s interest towards me, but my head is telling me that’s impossible now.

My head keeps having these internal battles, on the one hand, telling me it’s “impossible” because Bert is straight, and on the other, reminding me of what happened with my buddy Jack who was also supposed to be straight until he admitted his attraction to me as a man. So, my head can keep going on forever trying to explain the situations, to categorize the emotions, to sift through the dynamics. But what do I feel? And not only by myself, but also when I am with him. 

Without trying to understand it or categorize it or explain it: how does it feel when Bert & I are spending time together? 

Quiet desperation

[Content warning: suicidal thoughts.]

Maybe the worst type of desperation is a quiet one. When things are so bad, when anger and hopelessness are so intense, that one feels nothing or cannot express anything. 

There’s an expression in Italian, “il peggio non e’ mai morto”, which can be translated as, “it can always get worse”. That might be the closest way to explain my situation right now. I thought the unfairness and marginalization and discrimination I was experiencing at work earlier this summer were bad, awful, “the worst”. I had no idea the ostracism could reach the levels of this past week or two. 

I am having what are, technically, “suicidal thoughts”. These past couple nights have been really bad. Not even my morning runs can get my out of these dark thoughts. The only thing keeping me from going from thought to action is that I cannot think of any method that would have the guaranteed certainty of working. And I cannot bear the idea of it not working and then maybe leave me crippled for the rest of my life. 

A dear friend of mine also needs to job hunt now and the other day was saying what a coincidence it is that we’re in the same situation. But we’re not in the same situation. Our situations are wildly different. I don’t have savings. I cannot risk being without a job or accept a pay cut. I don’t own a house. I don’t have a supportive family around me, nor do I have a fulfilling life. And I’m not in need of a new job because of lack of funding at a current job where I’m valued and respected: I need a new job because my new supervisor and the big professors backing her are marginalizing me, ostracizing me, trying to keep me down or hold me back, or maybe even trying to get me to quit. And, unlike my friend, I haven’t built myself a “real career” that I can use in my job hunt. Here I am, nearly 45 years old, with a mish-mash of previous jobs that amount to nothing (both financially as far as savings go and from the professional career viewpoint). If at least I could say that, while not building myself a career, I had built myself the life I wanted from the personal viewpoint, e.g. in terms of relationships or explorations or becoming a professional athlete… but no, I have built nothing, achieved nothing, failed in every aspect of my life. And I don’t have the luxury to take some time off, like my friend could do, if necessary, to job hunt calmly or think about my next step or what I really want from my life. 

If I don’t find a new job immediately, my current job is going to kill me and I cannot quit it because otherwise I cannot pay my bills and I’ll end up under a bridge. And even in the best case scenario of me finding a well-paying job soon and start saving for the future, what would I really achieve? Get to my fifties before I can finally, maybe, start even thinking about what life I would want?

Bears and stars

Footsteps. Rustling sounds. All of a sudden I’m woken up by the sound of someone — something — walking around the campsite, the sounds of non-human footfall. 

I’m not consciously aware of this, it’s not my rational brain telling me, “Oh, that’s the sound of non-human footsteps”. It’s my instinctive, animal brain telling me. It’s my instincts waking me up, tearing me away from sleep and thrusting me into wide-awakedness within a couple seconds. 

I check my watch — an automatic reflex, I guess — it’s 3:31 AM. And I hear them again, not through the foggy brain of sleep, but wide awake now: the footsteps and rustling sounds of something big and not human at my campsite, only a few feet away from my small tent. As they get closer, I can hear the breathing, and I tear myself out of my sleeping bag, ready to jump or run, if necessary. But I sit still, frozen, listening, straining my ears. It’s right outside my tent now, I can hear the sniffing. It sounds like a big dog sniffing, but I know it’s not a big dog. 

Time seems to stand still. And I’m frozen, too, my body is frozen in fright. I’m not sure what I should do, I don’t know if the same rule of “making oneself big and loud” from the daytime would apply to a nighttime encounter with a bear. So, I just wait, immobile, holding my breath, with my heart rate through the ceiling. 

Eventually, the sniffing sounds stop, the footsteps get fainter and fade away, stopping, at last. And after a few more minutes, I start breathing a little more deeply again, and my heart rate starts going back down to normal, at last. And I look at my watch again: it’s 3:47 AM. 

Somehow those were the longest and the briefest 16 minutes of my life. 

Rationally, I know there’s nothing to really fear from the black bears we have here in Colorado. I am told they are more scared of us than we of them. That all they want is food. That they don’t prey on us, they eat berries and nuts and roots, and are only drawn to the smells of our food and drinks and lotions — which I had placed judiciously in the bear box. Everything. Every last item. Except for the gallon water bottle that I had got at the gas station earlier that day. I placed that right outside my small tent, right next to the flapper that opens as a door, in case I got thirsty during the night — which I know I do — nearby for me to reach without having to venture far (for fear of bears) but also not inside my tent, so as to be safer. I thought the gallon water bottle from the gas station wouldn’t really smell. I hadn’t thought that having been in a store it would probably be shrouded in odors; I had forgotten that I had drunk from that bottle myself when rinsing out my mouth from toothpaste earlier that night. So, that bottle probably smelled very interesitng to a bear — and that’s probably what the bear was sniffing right outside my tent, where I could hear it, by my feet. 

Even though I didn’t see it, I know it was a bear (I actually got confirmation from the camp-host the next day when I reported it). And it was my first encounter ever with a bear. 

I’ve seen plenty of pictures of them from friends and neighborhoods in this past decade of living in, or visiting, California, Colorado, Alaska. I even heard a bear while hiking with one of my buddies here in Colorado a couple years ago. But I have never come so physically close to a bear, and definitely not by myself. 

It was terrifying. And the fear, unfortunately, stayed with me for the rest of my trip, crippling my ability to go on the big hikes to the alpine lakes that I had planned. Too many trees, the woods too dense, and the hiking trails too empty of any other human. It was just me and the dense forest around a steep, technical trail. I kept jumping at every sound I heard — usually just birds flying out of a tree or bush, squirrels climbing or chipmunks scurrying. But my nerves just couldn’t take it. I felt too vulnerable, too small. Too alone. 

The loneliness hurt, even physically, on my trip last week. I could feel it in my chest. It made me feel lost and small. I had an extremely keen sense of really being alone in this deserted campground, on these trails with no other humans hiking. 

It wasn’t my first trip by myself. On the contrary, I’ve been traveling by myself for years, decades, at this point. I’m used to it and, often, I enjoy it. Although, admittedly, I used to enjoy it more — treasure it, crave it even — when it was an option among many. Now, it feels like it isn’t really a choice. The choice for me now, too often, is between going on a trip by myself or not going at all. So, I just go by myself. But being alone, time & again, is painful. 

And last week, the pain was more intense than it had been in a while. 

Partly, because I was still processing and feeling the rejection/abandonment from Bert’s change of plan regarding our tentative trip to Utah together in October. That still stung sharply. 

Partly, because I still had fresh in mind the memories from my recent trips with my buddy Bert, in June & July, camping and climbing and hiking and generally “adventuring” together. I thought I had found an “adventure buddy” again, at last, and had reveled in the joy. But then, he changed his mind about the Utah trip, and things went back to “normal” for me, i.e., traveling by myself as the only option I have. So, I felt the loss keenly and missed his company. And the memories being so recent made the comparison, the loss, the lack, ever more intense and painful. 

But the pain was very intense also because of a more general sense of frustration and lack in my life. There’s the craving for an adventure buddy or travel companions, from the human, emotional viewpoint of sharing and connection. This big hole in my life. But there’s also the practical aspect of it being so much harder to do things by oneself. If I hadn’t been alone last week, I would have gone on the hikes to the alpine lakes, despite the presence of bears in the woods around the trails. I know that for sure. So, being unable to do something I really wanted to do, something that makes me feel happy and alive, something that actually is the reason I want to live, is extremely painful and frustrating. And it can get to the point of raising the question: “What’s the point of life if I cannot do these things I love, these things I crave? How much longer can I take this? How much longer can I keep trying (& keep being disappointed)?” 

The shooting stars helped, though. This was what I have come to call “my Perseids trip”. It used to be normal for us to watch shooting stars in mid-August when I was growing up in Europe. That was the time of summer vacation, when we were in the mountains or at the beach, so it was easy for us to just sit outside at night and watch for shooting stars, “la notte di San Lorenzo”. But then, we grew up, life got in the way, and the workaholic habits of the U.S., especially, got in the way. Until last year. 

Last year, I restarted this habit. For myself alone, though, now. I don’t have friends available to go out watching for shooting stars, taking a few days off to find a dark sky and star-gaze. But I’ve started doing it again anyway. 

We got a lot of rain at Lake Granby last week, and cloudy nights. But I was determined: I was there to look for shooting stars, so I’d try my best to see some. 

On my first night there (the night that I was later woken up by the bear at 3:31 AM), I woke up by myself to pee shortly after midnight. The sky was extremely clear (& I wasn’t worried about bears, yet), so I took my camping chair, wrapped myself up in warm layers, and sat gazing up at the sky, losing track of time, losing myself in the Milky Way above me. And then, after the first shooting star, losing myself in the thrill of seeing one more, one more, just one more… until I had seen a dozen of them and my neck ached and I started feeling sleepy, as even the sheer, childish joy gave way to tiredness. 

On the second night, I was exhausted. It had rained before dinner, so I had brought my sleeping bag & pad from the small tent to my car, partly also because my nervous system needed a break to get back to baseline after the bear encounter the previous night and the constant sense of threat from bears while hiking during the day. So, that night, I just let myself sleep and I slept in the next morning and took a rest day, going for walks along the lake and sitting to read in my car when, later that afternoon and evening, we got several hours of pouring rain. 

But, despite the afternoon storms, I set my alarm for 3 AM on the third night, in hope of seeing some more stars, especially given that was supposed to be the “Perseids peak night” between 12-13th August. At 3 AM, my alarm went off. I felt extremely sleepy and almost turned over to go back to sleep, but just at that moment a big, bright meteor streaked across the sky. “OK”, I thought to myself, “that’s the sign!” So, once again wrapping myself in warm layers, I got out of my car and craned my neck for shooting stars. The sky was pretty cloudy, though, and I was still shaken from the bear encounter, so I just stood close my car, for a short while, until I had seen half a dozen shooting stars, and then went back to sleep. Despite the tiredness and anxiety, though, the joy was still present, and still growing at every meteor I saw. 

As I stood there sky-gazing, I forgot about everything else — the ache in my neck, the pain in my soul, the cold, the fear of bears — everything vanished except for the excitement of maybe, maybe, maybe seeing another shooting star… One more, just one more, please please please… 

Wholeness in the pain

I feel it in the pit of the stomach. A knot, almost like a punch in the stomach. I can’t eat, even if I’m hungry, even if it’s time for a meal. I feel like I want, or need, to throw up. 

It’s rejection. It’s how my body somatizes rejection. 

“You’ll have to tell me where to go from here, I don’t know how to get to your place”, Bert says on our way back from the climbing crag. 

“No, you can drop me off at the parking lot where you picked me up. I’d rather walk back home again”, I reply, trying to hide the hurt in my voice. 

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind”, Bert insists. 

“I’m sure. I actually like that walk”, I reply to him — “and I really need it in this moment”, I add silently to myself. 

At the parking lot, I grab my stuff from his truck, double-checking that I haven’t left anything behind, tucking in the loose objects. Bert is standing there, a little awkwardly, probably ready for the usual “buddy hug” that guys give each other at the end of an outdoor climbing session together. But I’m the one who needs space now, actual physical distance, and my body language is probably making that clear, as Bert finally just says, “Nice leads today”. 

“Thanks, you too”, I reply automatically, and walk off in the direction of the creek path, barely holding myself together. 

Although the real break down didn’t come for me until a couple of hours alter, I’m pretty sure Bert could tell I was upset. But, after all, he’s one the one who caused this pain. 

Some of our texting, some constraints he had lately been putting on our plans for climbing/hanging out together, had recently given me the gut feeling that he was trying to put a distance between us after our closeness on the 5-day trip climbing & hiking together in July. Sure, work stress is real for him, I know that, but I knew instinctively there was something else going on, too. And when we met in person to climb outdoors again yesterday, I got confirmation of my instincts. Part of it was still intuitions based on his behavior towards me at the crag. But then, the actual confirmation came on our drive back, when I asked him if he was still planning to do his trip to Utah in October and if he’d still like me to join him — something that he, not I, had brought up and suggested on our trip in July. As I asked my question yesterday, I felt him tense up somehow, or get more awkward. “Yes… I haven’t finalized my plans, yet, and I can’t remember the dates, but I’m tentatively still thinking of going.” 

Something felt weird but I needed to clarify, both because I need to know emotionally if this friendship is worth investing in and also because I need to start asking for time off at work, if I intend to take vacation. So, I clarified: “No pressure if you’ve changed your mind since suggesting the Utah trip to me at Devils Tower. But when you’ve decided, please let me know either way because I need to know what to do about taking time off at work”. 

And that’s when the hammer hit, that hammer I had been expecting for a couple weeks: “Yeah, it could be nice to have a buddy on this trip with me, it would make it less sketchy than running the canyons by myself… But I haven’t gone on a trip by myself, yet, this year, so I think I’ll need to go to Utah by myself”.

So, not only is he backpedalling, retracting the invitation/suggestion he made to me less than three weeks ago. On top of that, he’s also putting it as if the only reason he’d let me join him on the trip anyway would be just for safety, implying that my company — I as a person, I specifically as his friend — could be interchangeable with just any other “buddy”? 

WOW. Talk about some rejection.

I did eventually break down yesterday. When I got home from the climbing and the painful interaction with Bert, I ran some urgent errands of my own, still holding myself together by will power and a strong sense of practicality, or duty. Then, once at home again, I ate some food, texted with my gay runner friend to share/vent, had a nice long shower, and finally prepared myself to allow myself to feel. 

I knew the emotions needed to come out. I knew the knot in the stomach would be partially alleviated by a cry out. I knew that rejection was hurting like hell and that pain needed to be given space, all the space it needed. So, I made up my bed comfortably, set my alarm for half an hour later when I’d need to start getting ready for my evening plans, and put the song “Inkpot gods” by The Amazing Devil on repeat, as I curled up with pillows and my triceratops cuddly under the sheet. That’s the song that helps me get my tears out — it somehow taps straight into that deep well of grief in my heart. 

And, indeed, the tears came. The sobs, shaking my body. 

I dived straight into that deep well of grief and let the pain wash over me. 

It was cathartic, albeit terribly painful, even physically achy. 

And then, I felt the layers peeling away, in an experience that was almost on a different plane of consciousness, as close as I have ever come again to the experiences I had with ketamine-assisted psychotherapy three years ago. I let go wholly. And there was an incredible wholeness in my pain. Not only was the hurt child there again, yearning and calling for their Dad. There was also a sense of profound strength. I felt like an ancient tree, or mountain, grounded, rooted deeply. And I felt it physically: I wasn’t imagining it “rationally” in my head; I felt it deep in my body, in my soul. Almost as if it were some kind of strength that was going through me, being channeled by me. So, I released all control, and just let myself feel. 

I’m not sure how long it lasted, it was probably very brief. But it was incredibly deep and intense. 

Then, the pain washed over me again, with some more cathartic tears. 

And then, finally, slumber — like an empty shell left on the shore from a receding storm.

I’m over cis-het men

I’m over cis-het men. Or maybe I should say, I’m done with cis-het men. 

That doesn’t mean I’ll avoid them or their friendship completely or indiscriminately, of course. And it doesn’t mean I’ll stop interacting with the two or three cis-het men who are currently showing up in my life as good friends. But it does mean that I won’t initiate any more deep friendships with them or invest in any close friendships with them anymore. 

Partly, it’s a rational decision. But partly, and most importantly, it’s a deep shift within me at an emotional level — one of those decisions that I feel within me as a “point of no return” in my life, when I know I’m just moving on to another phase because I’m ready to. 

This has been coming on for a while now, I know. I’ve felt and written about my frustration in relationships with cis-het men several times in the past couple years, especially in the past year. But I’ve come to a breaking point now — a “point of no return”. 

I’m not sure why this has happened now. Maybe because there’s been one disappointment too many. Maybe because I am discovering, first hand, the depth and beauty and comfort and ease that comes from close platonic friendships with other gay men (even if it’s just two of them for now and they’re not even nearby geographically). Maybe because I’m feeling more comfortable and confident than ever in my open, explicit identity as a queer man, ready and desirous to show myself in the world as an openly queer man (e.g. even in my way of dressing/presenting) rather than trying to “go stealth” or “look straight”. 

I will forever be cut off from real intimacy or closeness with cis-het men. Partly because, as an AFAB person, I was socialized differently so their physical bantering with each other (which is very homoerotic, even if they will never admit to it) feels uncomfortable to me (maybe to that “girl” that is still partly within me). And partly because, as an openly queer man, as “the gay guy in the group”, I am perceived as a “threat” to straight guys or, at least, as someone whose physical closeness makes them uncomfortable. 

When I lived in the world “as a girl/woman”, I had an interest in interacting with cis-het men, partly because of feeling a level of sexual interest in them and/or of being an object of their sexual attraction towards me, and partly because it was the only way in which I could, albeit implicitly, get some affirmation of my masculine gender identity, of being “a guy among other guys”. The latter aspect of gender validation was important for me also in these past four or five years as I came more explicitly into my nonbinary transmasculine self and out to the world as a (trans)man. Interactions and even close platonic friendships with cis-het guys served me, were pleasant and fun and rewarding for me in several ways for many years — be it for gender validation, for sexual fulfillment, or for fun times. And those aspects were often sufficient for me to put up with the frustrations that came in relationships with cis-het men — be it their lack of communication or of commitment or of expressing how they feel, or my incapacity to feel fully integrated in “guy groups”.

But now, none of those reasons are sufficient anymore to put up with the frustrations. As a “man” myself now, I am no longer a sexual object of interest to straight guys (regardless of whether I might like them or be available to them in that way or not). And as an openly queer man, I’ll always be somewhat of an outsider with/to them, if not a straight out threat. Either way, I lose. Either way, I don’t get my emotional or relational needs met with them. 

So, I’m done with them.

Marginalization

[Content warning: misgendering; disrespect/discrimination based on transgender identity]

“That’s marginalization. I think one of the things you should do is go to the Office of Equity at your institute because to me it sounds like, among other things, you’re being discriminated against on the base of being transgender”. 

It’s not my therapist or a friend telling me this. Nor is it another trans person or someone in the queer community. It’s an elderly cis-woman retired professor of Engineering who, after having worked in academia for half a century, is now serving, with empathy and impartiality, within OMBUDS at the institute where I work. 

Her words hit me like a hammer. Probably because she’s finally voiced what I’ve been feeling inside me for two months but not even admitting to myself. Because that’s part of what marginalization is: we get so used to micro-aggressions, so used to being disrespected for one or more of our identities, so used to “putting up with things” in order to not make other people — straight people, privileged people, people in power — uncomfortable, that we end up telling ourselves that we “imagined it”, that it’s “not that important”, that we “can or should let it go, at least for now”. I.e., gaslighting our own selves. 

And that gaslighting of our own selves is, partly, a survival mechanism. 

But once you see the truth, maybe thanks to an empathic ally like the engineer woman with me yesterday, you cannot unsee it. 

When I reached out to OMBUDS earlier this week and started my conversation with the retired Engineering professor yesterday, I brought up my main complaint, i.e., a “typical” move of “academic politics” that has been performed behind my back, or over my head, to my detriment, which is making me not only stressed and uncomfortable at work but is also putting my actual job at risk. I hadn’t told the woman engineer how my supervisor had misgendered me three times in less than two months, including once in an email to the whole institute after I had already corrected her about my pronouns when she had read the email draft to me before sending it out. Nor had I brought up the fact that I feel uncomfortable talking to my supervisor about one of the issues I’m having with the video recordings for my online course due to my transgender voice because I feel my supervisor would dismiss or discount my concern, so I am “protecting” myself a priori from that pain or humiliation. But even without mentioning these incidents — these blatant examples of disrespect and/or lack of equity around my gender identity — the OMBUDS woman still recognized the marginalization based on gender of which I’ve been a victim. 

A victim. 

I think that’s the hard part for me to accept here. I’ve gotten so used to going into “tough guy” or “badass” mode, especially at work and/or when gender issues are involved, that it’s hard for me to accept, come to terms with, the fact that I am a victim here, not only of shitty academic politics (that apply to anyone almost indiscriminately) but also of marginalization due to my gender identity as nonbinary transmasculine person. 

Part of me is still in shock. It feels wonderful to be seen and validated, but it’s also shocking to come to terms with being a victim of marginalization/discrimination. It’s painful. And scary. And infuriating.

In fact, the other part of me is furious. Furious. Full of such intense and powerful anger that it’s hard to contain. 

But I know this anger is my friend. If I harness it, if I use it properly, I can let it fuel me in my next steps. Which include, indeed, reporting my supervisor to the Office of Equity at the institute where I work. And possibly filing an official grievance with respect to the “shitty academic politics” that happened recently in my research group, instead of just “venting” to HR. And certainly, using most of my energy, moving forward, to find another job. Report all the mishandlings here, so there’s as much on file as possible, and get out of here ASAP. Because it’s not going to get any better. And truth be told, I am afraid of retaliation. Which, realistically, would probably hit me harder because of the ingrained biases against marginalized people — and, as the OMBUDS woman rightly pointed out yesterday, bias against transgender & gender-non-conforming persons is, in reality, the most insidious one in STEM because it’s not even talked about (or hardly). 

So, be extra gentle with myself as a victim, because being a victim of marginalization is real. And then use this anger as a friend to fuel & guide me through the next tough steps.

Adventure buddies — Life companions

The alarm clock wrenches me out of deep sleep. It’s 10 AM. In an hour, I have to get on Zoom for a work training. Back to the reality of the daily grind, I drag myself out of bed, my mind still full of the emotions from the past five days and my body still store from all the intense climbing. 

On Saturday morning, my buddy Bert came to pick me up and we drove to Wyoming, where that afternoon we hiked and scouted out the Devils Tower National Monument in preparation for our climb tentatively planned for the next day. Our first multi-pitch climb together, ever: high stakes (literally as well as figuratively) for our first climb together just the two of us with no other climbing partners. 

When we got up at 4 o’clock on Sunday morning, it was still dark and we could barely make out the darker shadow of the Devils Tower a few miles away from our campsite. It had drizzled around 3:30 that morning, making the last, precious minutes of my sleep even lighter. I think I must have got about three hours of sleep total that night but the excitement was high and kept me going. 

We signed the safety register for climbers at the parking lot of the Devils Tower at 4:50 on Sunday morning and by 5:45 AM, as planned, we were climbing the first of half a dozen pitches. It took us less than four hours to reach the summit, 867 feet higher up, where we spent over half an hour basking in the sunshine (before it got too hot) and the exhilaration of our feat — or, at least, the first part of it. Two hours later, after four rappels and two down-climbing/scrambling sections, we got back to where we had left our extra backpack with the stuff we didn’t need to carry up the wall. We were exhausted, sweating buckets in temperatures that by that point had reached the high 90’s (Fahrenheit), thirsty and hungry. But mostly, we were two of the happiest people on the planet: we had done it, and we’d done it together! (And we had survived!) 

This is what I live for. 

This is what Bert lives for, too. 

For these feats, for these moments of exhilaration, for the physical and mental challenges, for the risk involved, the danger even. 

There are two aspects of this trip with Bert — the five days & four nights we spent together climbing, camping, and hiking to scout out our climbs — that are important and special to me in ways that fill me with joy mixed with other intense emotions. 

First of all, there’s the fact that I’m actually doing this again. Finally, I’m in a mental (& physical) space where I am once again able to face and endure and enjoy these risky feats, these adventures, pushing myself to limits that were familiar and natural and desirable to me for most of my life but that had seemed beyond my capacity recently. During COVID, first, and then again after my father’s death, my tolerance for risk seemed to disappear or go down to levels that for me weren’t “OK”, that made me feel like I had “lost myself”, I could no longer recognize myself. And that was heartbreaking for me. Now, for the past few months, those parts of me, of my identity, have been coming back as if I had finally gotten over the worst of the grief and burnout that had somehow “turned me into someone else”, at least partially, for the past couple years. This rediscovery of myself, literally finding myself & deeply ingrained parts of me again, has felt wonderful. 

Then, there’s the fact of sharing these adventures (& emotions) with someone else. Part of my shutting down or slowing down had also been caused by the lack, or unavailability, of adventure buddies. And this lack has also been heartbreaking for me and compounded the grief that I had from my other personal sources. 

The result is that now, mixed with the deep and exhilarating joy from this recent trip with my buddy Bert, there’s also an intense craving and with that, of course, the fear of losing this. 

For my entire life, my strongest desire has been to go on adventures with an adventure buddy who’d also be my life companion. 

I had that with my Italian sailing buddy, a boy I met at the end of high school with whom I spent four blissful years of sailing together, exploring, sharing adventures and experiences, and even being sexual partners. To a limited extent, I had it again, on & off, with my Californian sailing buddy almost a decade ago. And now, I crave having it with my buddy Bert. But now, it’s so much more complicated because I am a trans guy. 

My friends tell me to protect my heart, to be patient, to not rush things, to not make assumptions, to be careful. And I know they’re saying this from a place of love & care for me, and I know they’re right. And I can see my “pattern” and “my type” repeating themselves with/in these three (cis) guys. But what is hard to explain — to my friends and to the world in general — is the depth of this craving for me. 

I am aro-ace. This is the way I experience “attraction”. I don’t feel “romantic emotions” or infatuation, I don’t care about “romance”, I don’t get crushes or fall in love. I never dreamt of getting married or having a “family” or even buying a house or “settling down” with someone. I don’t feel attracted to, or interested in, anyone when I go to parties or clubs or out dancing or meet people out in the world. I’m not attracted to physical beauty or “sexiness”. And even the desire for sex that I do eventually come to feel with these very particular, or special, adventure buddies has nothing to do with “romance” or “sexual attraction” but, rather, stems from a need to co-regulate and/or a desire to connect more deeply while also to just relieve a physical urge in a shared, consensual, safe, and fun context. 

What I crave — and, fortunately, was able to have with my two sailing buddies — is, on the one hand, to be seen & treated both as a boy and as a girl, and on the other hand, to bond or connect through shared adventures as shared experiences/goals (rather than “romance” or sharing a house or “building a family”). I want an adventure buddy who’ll also, at least to some extent, be a life companion. That can include sex, but not monogamy. It would involve regular, frequent trips and experiences together, but not living together in the same house/apartment. It would require or entail trust, love, commitment, respect, and honesty, but no romance. 

This is hard to find because it’s not only non-normative: it’s also beyond, or different from, what lots of queer people have or seek because of the adventure aspect. Not only am I seeking a non-normative type of intimacy (aro-ace, polyamorous, no marriage, no children, no cohabiting); I’m also wanting, or needing, it to involve risky adventures together. 

So, I’m seeking someone who’ll be both adventurous AND open to non-normative relationships — AND open to, or interested in or attracted to, a nonbinary trans guy like me. This is the kind of person, the type of relationship, I’ve craved my entire life: an “adventure buddy / life companion”. Something like a unicorn, maybe, and something that’s being awakened again by these recent experiences with Bert. 

Scared of my feelings

“Yeah, I was thinking, ‘I dealt her all six of the cards’…” 

The world seems to stop for a fraction of a second, then Bert continues, “I think I gave you all the cards…”

This was two weeks ago. And those sentences, including the pronoun her, were referred to me. 

Bert & I were on a camping trip together, our first trip ever together, just the two of us, supposedly as buddies. 

Bert & I have known each other for almost four years now, although we’ve gotten closer only over the past year, very gradually. We met through a common climbing buddy in the autumn of 2022, before my gender-affirming top-surgery and when my features were still less markedly masculine. Yet, despite meeting me at a time of my life when I still looked like an “androgynous girl” and knowing me only superficially, Bert has always been, in his quiet way, one of my strongest allies. So his use of that pronoun her referred to me threw me for a loop. It didn’t offend me. For a bit, partly, it hurt. But the biggest emotion I felt was surprise, and in some way confusion. The question that came up for me was, “Doesn’t Bert see me as a ‘buddy’ and this as a ‘buddy’s trip’ then?” 

In these nearly four years of our acquaintance, Bert & I have seen each other a handful of times. After that first time climbing together outdoors with our common friend in the autumn of 2022, we went climbing outdoors as a group of three a couple other times. After my top-surgery, I was invited to a Thanksgiving celebration at Bert’s, through our common climbing buddy, and I remember noticing that Bert & I were the only two people at that gathering who were single. Then, in January 2024, I invited Bert to the huge party I had to celebrate the first anniversary of my top-surgery, and I remember him having brought glitter that he put on his face and offered to whoever else wanted some — again, something that struck me as “different” from my other straight guy friends. After that party, there were a few other occasions when he & I climbed together but always with some common friends. Then, at the beginning of June 2025, I invited my closest climbing buddy with his wife and Bert with his then-girlfriend to join me & my oldest nonbinary transmasc friend to a Pride event, as allies. They all joined and the general atmosphere was festive and relaxed. Once again, though, it was Bert who struck me as he was wearing bright purple, shiny spandex shorts and Pride swag that made him look very queer/gay — or, at least, that I would not have expected to see on a “straight” man, no matter how much of an ally he is. I was pleasantly surprised, and probably that fact went and added itself to the bucket of aspects that made me consider Bert as “quirky” in a positive and refreshing way, especially compared to many other straight men. 

It wasn’t until this past autumn of 2025, though, that Bert & I started interacting more directly, independently of our common climbing buddy. Once again, I invited my closest climbing buddy with his wife and Bert with his then-girlfriend to my birthday party but of the four of them only Bert could join, so he came alone anyway. At that party, I reminded my friends how the upcoming holiday season would be hard for me and therefore to please include me, if possible, in any of the celebrations — and indeed, a couple weeks later, Bert invited me to join him & some of his close friends for Thanksgiving and then he invited me to join the same group of tight-knit people for New Year’s brunch. At the latter, Bert & I talked quite a bit — something rather unusual for his quiet nature. So then, when I needed a place to stay for a few nights in the city where he lives, about an hour away from my place, in February and March, I asked him for hospitality, which he gave me. His then-girlfriend, with whom he was still living at the time, was barely around, so he & I had time to ourselves and got to know each other better, in a way that felt easy and spontaneous, and I was several times pleasantly surprised, almost amazed, at the breadth & depth of his knowledge or understanding, and even sympathy, of trans issues. I could talk and be as authentically myself with him as I can only with my very closest friends — and yet, in some ways, the friendship between me & Bert was/is still very “new”. But I felt comfortable and safe with him, that I could be my true whole self, and I genuinely enjoyed his company, his intelligence, his gentleness. The thought that went through my head, reflecting these feelings, was simply “I really like Bert!”

This spring he broke up with his girlfriend and moved — and I, together with his other close friends, gave him practical help. He had shown up for me so often, especially in the past year, that it felt only natural for me to show up for him. This past spring, I had also suggested to him and our common, close climbing buddy a camping/climbing trip all together: the latter declined, saying that for the time being he can only do “local days at the crag”, given his wife’s pregnancy; Bert, though, replied positively, saying he’d be happy to, as of June or so, after he’d settled in from his recent move. So, I decided to try and pursue this friendship, thinking quite logically to myself: “Here’s a person whose company I enjoy, who shares many interests with me, who’s shown up when I needed it, and who’s now also single, which most of my other buddies are not. So there’s potential for a good friendship here”. And, indeed, two weeks ago Bert & I went on our first trip together, just the two of us. 

And it threw me for a loop. 

I hadn’t known what to expect. I was excited but also a little apprehensive, not knowing whether we’d really be compatible as traveling companions, having never spent more than a few hours in each other’s company. Now we were carpooling and spending two days & one night together, camping & doing some easy hiking. So we had plenty of time for personal interactions. And the ease I felt in those two days with him blew my mind. I hadn’t felt so relaxed, truly relaxed, my whole nervous system relaxing, and so happy in a profound but also simple way, in years. And his use of the pronoun her for me, that slip he made, didn’t spoil those feelings for me. Somehow, after the initial pang and surprise and confusion, it added to the sense of ease with him. Maybe it was precisely that slip on his part that opened up in me the desire to get physically close to him. 

I am not physically/sexually attracted to him, and I honestly don’t even consider him handsome (i.e. esthetically attractive as some of my other buddies might be). And yet, I guess my aro-ace self was (& is) drawn to this person because I feel safe with him and seen in my whole self by him. He knows I’m trans. He’s even seen me pre-top-surgery. He knows I’m gay/queer. He’s one of the few cis-men around whom I still feel comfortable wearing leggings (he sometimes also wears leggings, by the way). When I brought up to him, the next day, his use of the pronoun her for me, it was evident he felt awful about it and he was extremely apologetic, saying, “I don’t know what happened there”. But I assured him I wasn’t offended, just curious to know how he sees me, explaining to him how important friends like him are to me, those few people I still have in my life who’ve seen me throughout the various phases of my gender journey. His reply was: “I see you as a guy. But there are also aspects of you that I would call ‘feminine’, like the connection you have to your feelings and the openness with which you talk about your emotions, which are things that in our society we usually associate to ‘women’. I wish men would do more of that, too, but we’re not socialized to as much, unfortunately”. 

His answer totally made sense to me. It didn’t offend me at all, on the contrary, in many ways it was validating. I don’t care if Bert sees my “feminine” sides — on the contrary, it’s a relief to me that he does and that I can express them freely with him, in ways that I still feel uncomfortable doing with my more recent cis-guy friends (at least, with the straight ones). 

I don’t know how Bert feels with me or about our friendship. I don’t know whether he sees me “just as a buddy” with whom to go on an occasional weekend trip outdoors. But I know that the way I feel with him is the way I want to feel with a companion, a partner, an adventure buddy with whom I can imagine & would desire connections that go beyond platonic. 

And these feelings I have for Bert scare me.