Content warning: this email includes an image of my top surgery scars; if you would like to read the newsletter without seeing the image, please reach out to me, and I’ll send you a text-only version.
My life is different now.
I know, of course, that our lives are always changing. We are fluid, we are flowing. Yet, there are some moments in our lives in which we can feel a shift so dramatic, so intense, that we know: My life is different now, and it will never be the same.
Three Mondays ago, I was preparing to have top surgery the following day. Jo, Marmalade, and I spent a quiet morning in our room, journaling and savoring our coffee. (And boy, did I miss that coffee the next morning while fasting!) I wrote my most recent newsletter that afternoon, grappling with my anxiety about the surgery itself.
My anxiety was, thankfully, proven unnecessary—aside from trouble getting the IV in my arm, the entire day went smoothly. Jo brought me home after I woke up from anesthesia, and I was so exhausted that I kept dozing off while eating Wheat Thins and watching Bluey. Charming, I know.
I spent the first week of my recovery oscillating between sleeping and trying to navigate issues involving my family-in-law, supporting Jo as best as I could. I showed him The Country Bears (2002)—it took us two days, but we got through it. Sometimes you just need a totally vibes-based comfort movie.
We knew the family issues were urgent, but didn’t realize that they were a time-bomb.
A week after my surgery, my life and Jo’s life changed—a change so decisive, so dramatic, that we know our lives are and will forever be fundamentally different. Every aspect has changed, from daily routines to long-term goals. Physically, mentally, emotionally, even financially—we are not the same people we were before.
We are always transitioning. That much I know is true. But there are moments when our lives experience a change so pointed and clear that it creates a before and an after.
That’s what happened for us. I’m still trying to process what it all means. How we’ll survive—and hopefully thrive—from day to day. Who we’re becoming now, who we’ll be when this phase of becoming ends and a new phase begins. I’ve been stressed and scared and so, so tired. I don’t know what to do about those things except keep moving forward, one day after another.
I have to keep reminding myself: we are always transitioning. Maybe paradoxically, I am trying to ground myself in the ever-flowing river of change.
So, amid monumental, before-and-after change, where are the other transitions?
Marmalade rests in the early evening light as the sun slowly sets. The sun, in transition.
A tree has been chewed by beavers, who are preparing it to fall. A tree, in transition.
A heron rises from the surface of the lake, preparing for flight. A heron, in transition.
A chest slowly heals from surgery, all scabs and bruises. Myself, in transition.
My life is different now.
Last summer, I participated in Transchool, a writing workshop by and for trans people, and the work my classmates and I created is going to be published in an anthology coming out this summer! Some of my classmates are raising funds to be able to go to Los Angeles for the book launch; if you are able, sharing and/or donating to their fundraiser is an easy way to make a significant difference in the lives of trans writers. You can donate here or by scanning the QR code in the image below.
