Nothing could have really prepared me for what I felt when I saw my “new” chest yesterday after the surgeon removed the bolsters from my “new” nipples. The therapy and counseling I’ve been doing; hearing the experiences and seeing the results from other people who got masculinizing mastectomy; the sharing with other non-binary/trans persons; the wonderfully supportive chats with my dearest friends (of all genders and across the globe). These were, and still are, invaluable: all of these people and experiences have been extremely important, fundamental, for me to get where I am, to actually have the clarity and courage to undertake this step in my journey — I couldn’t have done it without them all. And all of their sharing and listening and reflecting back to me what or who they saw in me was wonderfully encouraging, validating, and affirming: as such, it helped prepare me for the positive feelings post-op. But what I saw in the mirror yesterday brought such intense, profound, mind-boggling emotions that I never could have imagined or expected at such a deep level.
I couldn’t believe what I saw — in a good sense. There, opposite me in the mirror, stood a boy, a person with a “real boy’s chest”. Despite the scars being still dark and very long and visible; despite the lingering bruising; despite the slight swelling from fluid accumulation; despite the nipples still being shriveled and black. I really have a boy’s chest now. My torso really is a boy’s torso now.
It’s hard to put into words what I felt yesterday, what I’m feeling now. Maybe it’s how Pinocchio felt when the Fairy Godmother finally turned him into a “real boy”…
As I saw myself in the mirror yesterday, all of a sudden I saw my real self. It felt so intense and deep and mind-boggling that, beaming in the doctor’s office, I exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, that’s the real me!” And then, after a moment’s pause, “I really am trans!” — glowing with joy and also some surprise.
My entire life, I’ve been striving, and often even struggling, to be (or to be allowed to be) my whole, authentic self, often fighting or pushing back against conventions and expectations that family, society, and culture laid on me. I’ve been fortunate that along people ostracizing my authentic self I have also had plenty of wonderful people nurturing, encouraging, and supporting the “real me”. Since moving to California from Europe seven years ago, the process of finding, being, and openly expressing my full authentic self has accelerated, partly being easier in the places where I’ve lived here in the U.S. What I saw yesterday, though, made me realize that the process of finding, being, and openly expressing my full authentic self has, until now, been through the things I did: the clothes I wore; my haircuts; the ways I acted; the friends and acquaintances and communities I chose; the activities (both professional and recreational) I undertook. Because those were the only ways I had, or knew, to be and express my authentic self. And they were fine, they were and still are great. But they can only go so far. Changing one’s body to align with one’s identity goes much deeper and still feels somewhat unfathomable (at least, that’s how it feels to me).
Finally, after decades, having the body that feels to really belong to me, is incredible. It’s one of the most amazing — maybe the most amazing — feelings I have ever had.
Somehow, this is still “the old me”; and yet, in many ways, I will never be the same again, neither to myself nor to the world around me.
The Little Prince and the Fox 