The Little Prince and the Fox

The tip of winter is here

Last night, we got the first snow of the season here in Colorado (apart from the snow up in the mountains). It’s been a whole month later that in 2022 & 2023 and four weeks later than last year. It was just a sprinkle, just enough to cover the rooftops, and it’s already almost gone in the sunshine despite the sub-freeing temperatures, but it’s snow nonetheless.

It’s probably just the starting tip of winter, like a first small vanguard, and there will still be plenty of sunny, warm and balmy days. But winter might be here — and part of me says, “At last!”

One of the things I really like about Colorado is that it has four definite seasons.

The lack of real seasons was one of the things I ended up really disliking about California. It felt confusing and in the end almost exhausting for my body — and thus also for my mind, especially living near the coast with the marine layer in the summer. My body didn’t really know when to “wake up” or when to “hibernate” so I couldn’t really get that cyclicality of increasing & decreasing activity that my body & soul so revel in.

Here in Colorado I get that again, analogously to the places where I spent most of my childhood and youth. I love the summer heat, the intense light, even the pounding sunshine, the sweating: it feels so alive, so powerful and wild and liberating. Then, in the autumn, I can feel things — my body — gradually slowing down while still being active and actually getting some of the best trainings and athletic performances then. Winter follows, kindling my whole being into rest, into slowing down, recovering, hibernating almost. And getting ready for a renewed awakening, renewed coming-back-to-life in the spring.

At this point, my body, and probably also my mind, have been feeling “ready for winter” for a week or two, but the weather hasn’t been conducive to slowing down or resting. I still have one more race this season so the good weather has been helpful to train for that and I feel I need to keep up my “will to push” for another week. But I can feel that part of me is ready for rest, for the slowing down of winter. Especially this year, maybe, that has brought so much unexpected growth and healing and change for me.

I’m feeling the need to slow down and settle for a bit, let all the “stuff” inside me settle — let these fields rest so they may give bountiful crop next spring.

Grief haircut

This afternoon, despite the cold winter weather, I went and got almost all my hair shaved off.

I’ve worn lots of different hairstyles in the past three decades, mostly short or medium-short. At any given moment, though, regardless of the hairstyle, when I feel intense pain — mostly pain from loss and/or grief — I have an almost irresistible impulse to shave my head.

I have never actually had the courage to shave all my hair off completely but I have, very often, got it cut extremely short, almost down to the skin.

For the past couple years, I’ve been wearing a short masculine haircut that I usually get trimmed every few weeks. I had been feeling like I was due for a haircut soon but the past couple days that feeling creeped back: running my hands through my hair, thick but no longer than a couple inches, feeling an unbearable weight, feeling that strong impulse to just get my clippers and shave it all off.

It’s not fully shaved off now but it’s a very bare haircut with only a little bit of hair at the top of my head getting to about half an inch in length, the rest of it almost down to the skin, following the shape of my skull.

Ah, the liberation! The liberation I felt as I saw the hair falling to the floor in the salon, the liberation I feel now, rubbing my head.

It feels cleansing but also, in some way, it feels like the external, explicit, esthetic expression of my inner pain.

“I’ll be OK”

“

I feel the love but not from the ones who love me

I’m not alone, so why am I so lonely?

I’m too stressed to be depressed

I must confess I ain’t so blessed

It eats me up but still, I’ve got a heart that’s hungry

I’ll be okay, but I’m not okay right now

I’m knocked down and I’m still out

So if you see me on the ground, it’s okay

But I’m not okay right now

No, I’m not okay right now

[… ]

I’ll be okay, but I’m not okay right now

I’m knocked down and I’m still out

So if you see me on the ground, it’s okay

But I’m not okay right now

No, I’m not okay right now

Freak out until I lose my mind

Give up before you even try

I’ll be okay, but I’m not okay right now

Knocked down and I’m still out

So if you see me on the ground, it’s okay

But I’m not okay right now

No, I’m not okay right now

I’ll be okay, but I’m not okay right now

I’m knocked down and I’m still out

So if you see me on the ground it’s okay

But I’m not okay right now

No, I’m not okay

I’ll be okay

Same time, same place tomorrow

I’m going down in flames

I’ll be okay

Same time, same place tomorrow

Pretend it’s all okay

I’ll be okay

Same time, same place tomorrow

I’m going down in flames

I’ll be okay

Same time, same place tomorrow

Pretend it’s all okay

”

[Song “I’ll be OK” by Michigander]

Hard week

This is a hard week.

On the one hand, there’s the realistic, almost chemical, fact of coming down after 2-3 weeks of almost steady high, nonstop go-go-go — hence the ensuing physical tiredness and also a sense of emptiness.

But what makes this particular “low after the high” so hard is that it’s Thanksgiving week.

School is on break, none of my colleagues are working besides me, there’s no classes to keep me busy or provide some social interaction. But worst of all, it’s the week when many people, including many of my friends, travel to visit family or have family visiting or have plans with family. My housemate has their whole family in town and it’s proving extremely hard on me. Fortunately they’re staying at a different house, not with us, so I’m hardly interacting with any of them. But just the fact that they’re here, that my housemate, despite being trans like me, has the love and acceptance of their family of origin, is a painful reminder for me of what I don’t have. It makes my mother’s incapacity to accept me, her harsh words, my sister’s lack of understanding, and the loss of my father even harder to bear.

And on top of this, there’s also the loss of a close friendship that I have to deal with.

E. was one of my very first climbing buddies when I moved out here and for over two years I considered him my closest climbing buddy. When we met in the summer of 2022, we climbed together every weekend and often even once or twice after work on weekdays. Our friendship grew fast and he was one of my strongest cis-het guy allies. Even when I moved to a different town in the autumn of 2022 we kept up our weekend climbs together and for two solid years our platonic friendship grew steadily. Over the course of 2025, though, the distance between us has been growing. He’s gotten married and is trying to “start a family” with his wife and she, in turn, has wanted to go climbing with him. Which effectively means he’s been spending almost his entire time with her and hardly any with me.

Change is natural, paths diverge, friendships grow and wane, relationships change. Sometimes this happens organically, without it requiring conversations or explicit adaptations. But with my closest climbing buddy the changes had concrete painful consequences on our friendship as his unavailability for weekend climbs together kept growing to the point where he canceled a climbing trip together at the last minute last May. After that, I tried to have a conversation with him about his and my needs in our friendship, to make it work despite our diverging paths and different availability. It was a hard conversation but it seemed to help somewhat — until this past Sunday, when he bailed on me again, at the last minute, literally half an hour before we were going to meet for our hike and after having spent a day planning things and making compromises for an activity together. He bailed on me to go climbing at the gym that evening, not because he was sick or had some kind of emergency. He broke my trust and also broke my heart (platonically).

For me, especially because I am estranged from my family of origin, friendship is extremely important: to me, it is the foundation and the apex of relationships. My close friends know this. I don’t expect everyone to agree with this, to feel the same about this; but if you’re a close friend of mine, you know this is how I feel and this is how I behave — and expect to be treated — in friendship. Trust is key. It’s the fundamental currency of love. Having that trust broken, feeling that my company isn’t that important for this climbing buddy, would be hurtful in any moment. At this particular time, it is devastating.

This is yet another ending, yet another loss that I’ll have to deal with and mourn, but just now, I really don’t know how to go about it and all I can feel this week is the pain on all fronts.

Born again — Dead again

[Trigger warnings: death; loss of loved one; grief.]

This weekend I was reminded very painfully of how life and death are the two sides of the same coin.

Two weeks ago in Chicago, on my 44th birthday, I was born again as my chosen name and affirmed gender were registered at the Italian Consulate — and the ultimate proof of this came in the mail last Friday and sits among my documents now: my new Italian passport. But this same document, this same renewal, this same rebirth, is also a reminder of death. The reminder of my father’s death. The concrete reminder of his death, the tangible proof that he will never know the real me — concrete because I now hold in my hands the ultimate document of recognition from “his” country.

Italy recognized my chosen name and affirmed gender. My father didn’t. My father never will. My father will never even know.

Grief tore through me and ravaged my soul & body again this weekend. The pain nearly unbearable. But it’s not only the terrible pain of this loss: it’s also the additional pain from the lack of acknowledgement or recognition from my mother.

Not only does my mother refuse to see or acknowledge the early, ever-present signs of my gender-identity. Not only does she insult me by thinking that I was “brainwashed into being trans”. Not only does she blame me for not being present when my father was ill & dying. On top of all this, she also acts and talks like she’s the only one who’s lost a loved one, as if she were the only one experiencing grief, the only one suffering from my father’s death. In my mother’s eyes I am not only denied the reality of my gender-identity — i.e. the right to be myself: I am also denied the reality of my pain — the pain that comes from a father who was basically absent or disapproving for the last three decades of my life; the pain that comes from having lost my father over and over; the pain from the difficulties of my gender-journey; the pain from knowing that my father will never know me.

This pain is devastating.

And my new Italian passport, while being a wonderful achievement and something for me to cherish & celebrate in its own right, is also a terrible, tangible reminder of all this pain.

Born again

Yesterday, as I was chatting on the phone with one of my best friends from grad school, I noticed the Priority Mail envelope outside my front door, the envelope that I had anxiously been awaiting for a few days. Excited, I interrupted my friend mid-sentence, opened the door, grabbed the envelope and ripped it open: there, inside it, was my new Italian passport, bearing my chosen name and affirmed sex ‘M’.

Ten days prior, I was walking into the Italian Consulate in Chicago, dressed in the most standard masculine way with grey men’s pants and a light-blue button-down shirt (but also wearing my queer Pride rainbow wristband). As I walked through the door of the suite on the 18th floor of a skyscraper in downtown, for a brief moment I wondered whether I’d have to speak Italian or English. The question was soon answered, as the Carabiniere greeted me, “Buongiorno”. Despite being perfectly bilingual for English & Italian, I found myself struggling with the words stuck in my throat. I was nervous, emotional, still afraid that something might go wrong.

The Carabiniere checked me in — his slightly southern Italian accent and his “friendly formal” attitude so familiar, coming back to me from some long-buried-yet-not-forgotten depths. And so reminiscent of my father — himself a man from southern Italy and in the armed forces for most of his life.

I was almost forty-five minutes early so I was asked to sit and wait to be called, and assured that the colleague at “window #4” would help me very soon. I went to sit and as I put down my bag and jacket, part of my nerves let go and the welled up emotions broke the dam, overflowing. I sat and cried. The tears just flowed out uncontrollably from my eyes, nose running, as I thought to myself, half laughing, “Here I am to be registered as a ‘man’ and I’m crying! So much for ‘boys don’t cry!’”

Fortunately, I had some time to regain composure before I was called up to “window #4” and asked to hand over the paperwork for the passport renewal. But I was still anxious and my nerves showed. Again, the person serving me was formal in that somehow typically Italian “formal” way and as he typed my data into the computer he must have noticed my birthdate/birthday and said, “Auguri!” (i.e. “Happy birthday!”). Among other things, I had to hand him my old passport, with my given name and assigned sex ‘F’, which made me really nervous, so I sort of asked/reminded him that I had been assured that all the paperwork for my name & sex change had been approved and registered — to which he replied, again in that “friendly formal” way, “Si’, si’, e’ tutto a posto”. In fact, he filled out the paper form for males (Italian grammar is very gendered so there are two different forms for females & males) and handed it over for me to revise and sign. And yet, as he held my old passport and inserted my biometric data into the computer, he asked me, “Quanto e’ alta?”, using the feminine to ask my height. I answered his question telling myself quietly that I would let it go this one time but, if it happened again, I would correct him and tell him to use the masculine for me in Italian. That ended up not being necessary, though. The rest of the interaction went smoothly and his attitude got gentler as we proceeded with the paperwork. Until, at the very end, when everything was done, he said, with a kind, sympathetic tone, “E’ stata lunga, eh?” (i.e. “It’s been a long time coming?”). The genuine kindness in the tone of his question touched me so I answered sincerely, drawing a deep breath: “Si’, tra la difficolta’ a prenotare un appuntamento e il cambio sesso c’e’ voluto un anno e mezzo…!” (i.e. “Yes, between the difficulty to get an appointment and the sex change, it’s taken a year and a half”). Then, his final reassuring, sympathetic remark: “Non si preoccupi, adesso e’ tutto a posto” (“Don’t worry, now it’s all settled”).

I took a deep breath and tried to still my mind, my emotions, to get myself together as best I could before heading out into the bustling downtown again. I walked over to the Carabiniere to retrieve my cell-phone and asked him where the bathroom was. And without a moment’s hesitation, with no hint of a doubt, he gave me the code & directions for the men’s room.

At 44, in a city that until then had had nothing to do with me personally, I was born again.

And that night, I went out to celebrate with one of my closest straight guy friends, wearing leggings and a skirt and a shirt and tie. Not only am I a man who can cry: I’m also a man who enjoys wearing skirts sometimes!

As I sit and write all this, my new Italian passport, bearing my chosen name and affirmed sex ‘M’, is sitting on my desk right next to my laptop. The photo on it is awful but it’s me and it really looks like a man. And as one of my closest cis-het buddies said to me when I showed it to him yesterday: “Every guy has at least one picture that looks like a mugshot: take it as additional validation!”

The “nice guys” in my life

“Happy birthday, man”. “Happy birthday, dude”. “Happy birthday, brother”. It’s a series of big tight “guy hugs” from some of my new cis-het buddies as I celebrate my birthday over beers with the co-ed climbing team after our weekly training.

When I joined this climbing team about a month ago, I did so “stealth” and was automatically treated as one of the men. A mixed group of men & women, ranging in ages from late twenties to late forties, all straight-presenting and including a couple of “couples”, they were warm and welcoming and genuinely nice. I decided to join the team as much for the social aspect as for the athletics because I felt so comfortable with, and welcomed by, them all. But I still decided to “go stealth” for a while, not knowing what reactions or shift in dynamics could happen if I immediately showed my queerness and/or transness.

Then, last Sunday, the “Cookie Jar Comp”: a recreational climbing competition in which our whole group competed as a team and where I had the opportunity to sign up (& compete & be awarded) as non-binary athlete. Once I realized I’d be up for the non-binary podium, I decided to take the leap by wearing my tank-top with the big writing on the front, “This is what trans looks like”, for the nonbinary awards. That’s how I let my team know, after testing the waters with them for about a month, that I’m trans. And last night, I wore my “trans-pride” tank-top & wristband to our climbing training, in honor of TDOR, so there’s no doubt now that they all know. And yet, it makes no difference. I was “man” and “brother” for the other guys a month ago; I still am “man” and “brother” for them now. (The women on the team seem to feel a little more comfortable or relaxed around me now in a way that feels good, not weird or creepy.)

Since the explicit beginning of my gender-journey and, especially, since moving out to Colorado where my gender-journey really took flight, I have been “collecting” nice guys. For the past five years or so, apart from a few queer people, most of the friends I’ve been making are cis-het men. But the “good ones”. Men who see me as one of them regardless of what my body looks like. But also cis-het men who defeat the negative (& often truthful) stereotypes of toxic masculinity: these are guys who can, and do, express their feelings openly; guys who often communicate clearly and are able to apologize and/or take ownership when they don’t; guys who show up concretely for each other, for me, for the women in their lives; guys who are keenly aware of their privilege and use it to uplift and/or help those who have less; guys who have done, or are doing, work (e.g. therapy) on themselves.

I have found more understanding, empathy, and genuine acceptance by these cis-het men (climbers and/or trail-runners) than I did from the queer folks in the gay men’s chorus.

There still is plenty of toxic masculinity in climbing, as everywhere else. But somehow, I seem to have the knack for steering clear of it. I don’t know if I sense it at a gut level and instinctively avoid it; or if it’s precisely my being a queer man that draws only open-minded, nice guys to me, people whose heads & hearts won’t be full of homophobic and/or transphobic bullshit. Maybe it’s a combination of both. But anyway it is a blessing.

It is an affirming, heart-warming gift.

TDOR 2025

[Trigger warnings: transphobia; physical/psychological/emotional violence; death.]

Today is Trans Days Of Remembrance.

This year, given the actual war that the fascist Trump administration is leading against our community, it is a sadder and more important day than ever to remember.

I’m one of the lucky ones — at least, for now. I live in a State that allows me to choose my gender-marker on personal ID/driver’s license and protects my rights to gender-affirming care; I can often not only compete as an openly trans nonbinary athlete but be recognized & awarded fairly, too — partly also thanks to my own grass-roots activism & advocacy, which I can fortunately do here without too much risk of personal harm. I even got my “sex change” approved by the Italian authorities.

I am keenly aware of, and grateful for, my good fortune and privileges compared to other trans (& queer in general) folks.

This good fortune, though, did not come for free. It came at a high cost. Like for many other trans (& queer in general) people, it came at the cost of leaving a lot behind, of moving far away, of being rejected & estranged from my own family of origin.

Yesterday, I had one of the rare phone calls with my mother, returning her call from last week for my birthday. It was going quite well until she misgendered me, using “she” pronouns. I let it go a couple of times, but at the third or fourth iteration, I gently interrupted her and reminded her that I use “they” or “he” pronouns”, telling her she could pick whichever was easier for her between “they” or “he” but definitely not “she” pronouns. Despite me having told my mother about my pronouns and gender journey for the past four years or so — or, at least, told her what I could considering how she ostracized the topic every time I brought it up — she still tried to justify her mis-gendering blaming me for having told her (& my sister) “out of the blue”, blaming me for not having shown her/them the process “from A to Z”, as she put it. She even said that she & my sister are afraid that I have been “brainwashed into being trans” (her words).

At that point, I lost it. I tried to remind her of all the signs that had been there since I was a child, throughout my youth, about me being, or trying to be/show myself as, a boy. But she refused to acknowledge any of it. Instead, she started blaming me for not being present when my father was ill and dying. That’s when I had to hang up on her and block her on my phone (again).

The thought that my mother & sister think I’ve been “brainwashed into being trans” is appalling and shocking to me for several reasons.

First of all, from an objective viewpoint not related to myself, it makes me really worry about the sources of (dis-)information that my mother & sister are drawing upon — are they reading/listening to the bullshit that transphobic people like JK Rowling spit out? And what is even more concerning is that my mother & sister are two intelligent, highly-educated women with university degrees who live in big, cosmopolitan cities, speak several languages and have been to many countries: if intelligent, well-educated, worldly people like them can believe the bullshit of folks being “brainwashed into being trans”, then where can we even start to fix things?

The other reasons why my mother’s comment upset me so much yesterday are intensely personal. On the one hand, it’s once again proof of her not seeing me and of her never having seen me for who I was (& am): she ignored all the signs, always. And while I grant that neither she nor anyone else (including me) had the tools when I was growing up to understand specifically that I was (& am) trans, she (& most people in my family of origin) tried their utmost to change me into their idea of what I, as a girl/woman, should be. Even if they, or none of us, could really understand or name that I was trans, loving me truly should have led them to let me be me — which they ostracized for decades and my only solution was to escape. On the other hand, my mother’s (& sister’s) worry that I had been “brainwashed into being trans” shows how she/they still cannot see me as an intelligent, fully grown, independent, discerning adult. My mother (& sister) is/are, yet again, infantilizing me — which is a typical weapon of the oppressors against the oppressed and marginalized.

My mother’s (& sister’s) continuing refusal to see & accept me for who I really am is a way of trying to kill my transness. So, while I am keenly aware of the stark difference between physical vs. psychological/emotional harm, I do want to remind us all that violence and oppression come in many different forms. Not recognizing our transness, or our queerness, denying our capacity to self-define ourselves, erasing our civil rights (chosen/correct gender-markers, access to gender-affirming care, recognition to compete as athletes, etc.) are also ways to try and kill us. When we are fighting for these rights, we are truly fighting for our lives.

Crash: the lows after the highs

Here it is, the low after the high.

Ten days ago, I ran my fastest half marathon on trail, shaving off 7 minutes from the time my coach had projected for me and winning first place nonbinary. I was able to compete & be awarded fairly and to be proudly visible as my trans, nonbinary self, while also advocating for other trans/nonbinary athletes, and even exchanging numbers with one of them. That evening, I had dinner and spent some lovely time celebrating, sharing, and relaxing with my closest nonbinary transmasc queerplatonic friend here. It was a day filled with excitement, joy, satisfaction, pride, connection, and love. I was as high as a kite.

The next day, I felt terribly empty. Tired and sad and lonely.

By now, I’ve learned that’s how it often goes for me when I do a race, especially if I do well and have a wonderful day: the next day I crash after the high.

Now, I’m feeling similarly after my wonderful “birthday week”.

I spent a whole week doing things that were exciting and/or new and/or fun, exploring or having to really focus on an important goal, and most of the time in the company of loving, supportive friends. Life was high up on cloud nine. Now, life is “back to normal” and it’s feeling quite empty. I’m struggling to stay focused on the things that are important, that really matter to me, or that I have to get done anyway. I’m trying to hold onto the warmth of all the love & affection & support I received only so recently, while honoring the loneliness I’m feeling from a week with no plans in view with friends.

And then the additional sadness coming from other sides, too.

On the one hand, the sadness from the proof that the relationship with my other local nonbinary queerplatonic friend has ended — this final proof coming from the fact that they forgot or ignored my birthday, which they usually remembered.

On the other, the sadness from realizing that the attempted reconnection with my European queer ex-lover is not going to work — this final realization coming from their latest messages, which I had put off reading until yesterday, as I didn’t want to jeopardize “my birthday week”. But it’s real, it’s really over: now I know and I have to deal with “losing them a second time”.

And finally, there’s the dread of the looming holidays. Of Thanksgiving coming up next week with the reminder that I don’t have a “family” to spend it with — or maybe I do, a scattered chosen family, but it still requires a lot of effort in planning and reminding friends to please not forget me during the holidays while also trying to forget myself the pain of being estranged from my own family of origin that doesn’t accept me for who I am.

This has been one of my best birthdays ever.

Four days before my birthday, I won a race, effectively running my fastest half marathon on trail, shaving off 7 minutes from the time my coach had projected for me. And four days after my birthday, I won my first (recreational) climbing competition. But, more importantly, at both events I was able to compete & be awarded fairly and be proudly visible as my trans, nonbinary self, advocating for other trans/nonbinary athletes, too.

Over the course of a week, “my birthday week”, I had a wonderful “new adventure”: my trip to Chicago, including the long train ride, connecting with interesting people on the train, going for a run along the lake shore, finding a couple of spots in Chicago that started feeling familiar or like “my own”, having explorative sex with a non-queer friend, getting my gender validated both in human interactions and legally on my Italian passport. And I was supported and celebrated by wonderful, loving friends all around: the trusted friends here in Colorado & in Europe who were on the lookout for me during my trip to Chicago, should any problems arise; my buddy who joined me in Chicago to celebrate on my birthday night; the friends who, despite being geographically distant, are nonetheless steadily present for me; the close friends who came to my birthday party potluck this weekend, cooking for me, DJ-ing, bringing candles for my birthday cake, and generally putting up with all my quirks.

All of this brought me profound, immense joy and I can still feel the warmth in my heart.

And what brought & brings me even more joy was to see how well my friends got along with each other at my birthday potluck even though most of them didn’t know each other. Several of them texted me after the party saying explicitly things like “I had a really great time and you have very nice friends”!

Yes, I do have very nice friends. I am blessed with wonderful friends.

One of my friends in his birthday card to me wrote, “Your steadfast friendship is a blessing to me” — well, I feel the same about his friendship to me, all their friendships to me.

Another friend in their card wrote me, “…you’re a stellar friend and such a caring human” — this coming from the most caring person & loving friend I know.

I won’t change the general, pervasive normativity of relationships and the overall oppression this generates. I won’t be able to change the transphobic laws this fascist government is unrolling. I cannot magically allow trans athletes to be recognized throughout the country. I cannot change the minds of all obtuse people who think queer is “wrong” or “sick”. But I can create small bubbles of profound, caring, supportive relationships and networks based on platonic friendship that function differently from the norms we’re taught. I can show up visibly, loud & proud, and advocate for myself and other trans/nonbinary athletes at some trial-running and climbing events. I can be my own authentic self, more or less visibly queer as much as I feel like it.

I cannot change the whole world or fight all the battles but maybe I am doing something of value. And if so, it’s also thanks to the support from my wonderful friends.