On 1st April 2019, I turned four years old. That is to say, this month marks four years since I came out as a man, and started this long, long, looooong transition.
And it’s felt long. Four years ago, I couldn’t use a locker room. I couldn’t go swimming. I couldn’t wear anything more revealing than a loose jumper and long jeans. I could barely talk. I lost my best friend, and most of my family. I’ve developed ‘white coat syndrome’ and a hatred of doctors and healthcare that is more than a little problematic. I’ve gained scars. Sometimes I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Sometimes I didn’t even know if I wanted to make it. What was the point, if this was going to be the rest of my life?
Except it isn’t.
I got home last night from a week in Spain with my partner. We spent one lazy afternoon in a spa, listening to meditation music in hot baths. I got my first professional massage. We wandered through a busy city centre back to the hotel, me in just my tank top and shorts with sun everywhere else. We celebrated her new business, and drank too much sangria.
I’m not done. In just over a month, I’ll be going abroad for the first stage of my phalloplasty surgery. I’ll be five before I get to say I’m finished. Five years old before I fit. But I will fit. And at four, I can see that. At zero, I couldn’t.