Two and a half years ago, I sat in a medical waiting room nervously rehearsing my reason for seeing the nurse practitioner. The words I needed to say to her — that I was transgender and wanted her help medically transitioning — I had once promised myself not to say to anyone.
I thought I’d keep this part of my identity my deepest secret, one I’d known since childhood but would never reveal. Back then, I wouldn’t have even known how to reveal it, what words to use — I only sensed that I wasn’t the girl everyone assumed me to be and that I wasn’t quite a boy like my twin brother, either.
I had vivid dreams in which I could change the shape of my body, dreams from which I woke up heartbroken. I didn’t know how to articulate who I was or imagine a world in which others could truly see me.
I only knew who I wasn’t. As the decades went by, I found language that helped me articulate my nonbinary identity, language that led me to a community.