A quarter of a century ago, the summer after I had finished high school, I met a boy who was nearly three years younger than I and who quickly became one of my closest friends and biggest loves.
We were sailing partners, buddies, lovers, siblings. We’re still in touch to this day — in fact, yesterday, his older daughter turned 5 — despite our paths having diverged.
During the years that we were together, we were inseparable and went on hundreds of adventures together (mostly sailing) — exploration and rebellion being among the corrnstones of our deep bonding. We’d go on sailing trips, in old rickety boats, setting anchor at moorings that were free in small bays — we were young and couldn’t afford anything more, anything fancy. Our trips were rustic, our boats trustworthy but basic. We’d go off for days, weeks, eventually a full month on end, with our cell-phones turned off, no computer, a few good books to read, and the boat’s radio for the weather forecast. It was wild and refreshing and liberating. Our trips put us face to face with the elements: heat, cold, wind, storms, stunning sunsets and breath-taking sunrises, endless starry skies, and beautiful moons. And shooting stars, that we’d lie awake to watch for in August and make wishes upon.
When the “romance” part of our relationship ended, one of the things I missed the most was our adventures together. I missed the adventures with him but I also missed that part of me that went on those adventures and that didn’t have that outlet anymore. I had lost a piece of my identity and it was heart-breaking for me.
I eventually found it again, especially on my solo trips on my motorcycle after moving to California in 2016.
With my move out to Colorado in 2022, I somehow lost it again. Another big move (after the one from Europe to California), with another job change, trouble finding a place to live (I’ve moved half a dozen times since moving out to Colorado), and in many ways starting my life over and making changes that felt even bigger than those due to my move from Europe to California. Indeed, the medicalization and legalization of my gender journey, which became a practical reality only once I moved to Colorado, has taken so much of my time and energy, and it has influenced my daily life, my emotional state, my mental capacity, and my relationships so heavily that it’s been hard for me to just be, to just live a life.
These pst three days, I felt like I finally got to just be, to just live my life again.
Last week, I really needed to get away. I couldn’t wait for the trips planned for the end of August or September for a break, I needed a break now.
At first, the heaviness that I’ve been feeling in the past few years of having to do everything by myself, having to plan and organize and go always all by myself was almost crippling me. And I could definitely feel that sensation that I have come to recognize so easily over the past few years: anxiety stemming from loneliness. Nevertheless, I knew I had to do this for myself, I knew I needed a little getaway, to go do something that I’ve wanted to do for years: go somewhere with a dark sky to see the Perseids meteor shower.
So I did it. I just got back now from three days of camping & hiking in the Rocky Mountain National Park.
I’m tired but I’m happy (& tearing up from emotion). Happy because I found myself again. I found that little child who’d go out in the dark street in the little town in Austria where we’d spend lots of our summer to count shooting stars with my parents. I found that young adult who lay on a small mooring on the Croatian island of Olib to watch for shooting stars with my sailing buddy/boyfriend. I found that simplicity of having only the few things I really needed in that moment: some food, water, shelter from the elements, a good book to read while relaxing.
I just found me again, regardless of my gender or sex or age or sexual orientation. I just felt like a human, a person, an adventurous human who likes to do things outdoors in Nature. As I interacted with people on my hikes and at the campground, I didn’t really think or worry about how I looked, how they might perceive me — the way I didn’t when I went on my solo motorcycle trips a few years ago. Of course, this time I used the men’s bathrooms and people addressed me as “he”, “him”, “sir”, “guy”. But they were just words, it didn’t change their behavior towards me or mine towards them. We were kind and friendly or polite with each other; I didn’t worry about “avoiding to look like a creepy guy”. I was just me: a person traveling by themself, just as I did when I looked like a “girl”.
The Little Prince and the Fox 