What does it mean to transition? A journey with your Lovable Trans Auntie
Your Lovable Trans Auntie is our go-to advice column for lifes biggest (and messiest) questionslove, work, identity, and everything in between. With a signature blend of warmth, wit, and just the right amount of sass, Auntie offers readers a uniquely trans perspective thats as affirming as it is entertaining. Whether dishing out heartfelt wisdom, practical advice, or a little tough love, Auntie is here to remind everyone that theyre never alone on this journey.Got a crush but dont know how to tell them youre trans? Wondering how to deal with that coworker who still forgets your pronouns? Trying to navigate family drama, dating dilemmas, or just figuring out who you are? Aunties got you. Submit your questions to voices@equalpride.com.When I first introduced myself as her, it was in the confines of my high school bathroom. I was 15, heart pounding, freezing in a tube top with a bald head and lips coated in the glossiest of glosses I could afford then. "Hi," I whispered to my reflection. There I was: the first time I saw fragments of my true self reflected in the mirror. As I left the bathroom, it was like opening a door to a house I'd been peeking at through the windows my whole life. This was the 'first' part of my transitioning: messy, glorious, and equally freeing and terrifying. But what's even more horrifying is how the Trump administration is attacking trans youths. On January 28th, President Trump issued an Executive Order banning federal support of gender-affirming care. Though billed as "Protecting Children from Chemical and Surgical Mutilation," the order targets anyone under the age of 19, which includes some who reach their legal age of adulthood. "Medical professions are maiming and sterilizing a growing number of impressionable children," the order reads, "under the radical and false claim that adults can change a child's sex through a series of irreversible medical interventions." The order is part of the latest by the administration since Trump's inauguration on January 20th: first, instituting a federal policy to recognize only two genders based on sexmale and femaleand issuing a directive aimed toward banning trans individuals from serving in the military. The latest moves by the second Trump administration are sending a clear message: to limit the rights and dignities of trans-Americans. And, they hope, but limiting medical accesssurgical intervention for those under 18 is already limitedfor youths, they hope it will erase trans lives in the public sphere. But, if Auntie knows best, it doesn't erase us. We adapt, hoping for better times when we can flourish into our true selves.Transitioning is a journey, not a destination. (Yes, I know that's a clich, but sometimes clichs fit like a pencil skirt.) For trans folks, that journey unfolds in phases: social, medical, and surgical transitions. These stages are as unique as we are, with no one-size-fits-all approach. Some embark on all three paths; others choose only one or two. It's a profoundly personal odyssey shaped by identity, circumstance, andlet's be honestaccess. Let's start where I did: social transitioning. This is the non-medical, non-surgical shift in presenting ourselves and interacting with the world. Names, pronouns, clothing, hair styling, makeup (or lack thereof), and more. For me, social transitioning was soul liberation. At 15, I would swap out my outfits after leaving the houseusually going to a Rainbow store when there was a downtown mallwith clothing that made me feel more authentic. As for my name, well, I went with my birth name: more on the power of chosen names for another time. Social transitioning was like trying on new skin, but in a world that wasn't always kind to those who dared to shed the old. By 17, though, I hit a wall. One made of familial expectations and social fear. My family couldn't (or wouldn't) accept my authenticity, and I was forced to "detransition." All boxed up like old love letters, I put away my name, pronouns, and truth. Though it looked as if I was happy on the outside, those were my darkest years. But even as I tried to conform, the truth of my identity simmered beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to burst forth again. Medical transitioning entered my life at 30, and it was like a reunion with my younger self. Medical transitioning involves hormone replacement therapy (HRT), puberty (or, in my case, testosterone) blockers, or other treatments that alter one's physical characteristics to align more closely with their gender identity. HRT felt like a homecoming. The first time I saw the subtle softening of my face in the mirror, I cried. Correction: I ugly cried, the kind of crying you don't want anyone to see, with tears, snot, and all. It wasn't just tears of joy but tears of years lost, of battles fought, and of the girl I had once abandoned. Hormones, however, are not magic wands. They're more like fairy godmothers who work on a budget. The physical changesbreast development, fat redistribution, skin texture-take time and vary from person to person. That ugly cry moment? That was just in December of last year, after seeing my old photo and the differences in my face. Then, there's also the emotional rollercoaster of adjusting to your new hormonal landscape. Pro tip: keep tissues handy and warn your friends that you may cry over various things.Finally, there's the surgical transition, the final frontier for some of us. Surgical transitioning involves procedures to modify one's body, from facial feminization or masculinization surgeries to chest and genital reconstruction. These surgeries can be lifesaving and life-affirming, but they're not necessarily accessible to everyone financially. However, some organizations provide financial assistance to offset costs. For some, these surgeries are non-negotiable; for others, they're unnecessary. It's all about individual needs and goals. I haven't undergone any surgeries yet, but the option is something I think about often. In fact, I've recently talked to a specialist who works on facial feminization for minor nips and tucks on my nose and jawline. When I was younger, I believed surgery was the ultimate marker of trans womanhood. At this final destination, I would show the adversaries in my family and society that I had made it. But now, I know it's not about reaching an endpoint but living authentically in whatever works best for you. Surgery doesn't make someone more or less trans. In all its forms, transitioning is about aligning your inner truth with your outer reality, and that alignment looks different for everyone. What complicates this journey, besides some in society and government who desire to clutch their pearls, is access. Transitioning is expensive. Hormones, therapy, doctor's appointments, surgeries, recovery timesnone of it comes cheap, and the increasing scrutiny on gender-affirming care may force insurance companies not to cover it. For Black and Brown trans folks, the barriers are even higher as we stand at the intersection of systemic racism and transphobia. This makes access to medical and surgical transitioning a Herculean task, meaning we must fight harder, shout louder, and dig deeper to push past the adversities. But here's the thing: we do fight. We do shout. And we thrive. Transitioning, in whatever form it takes, is a testament to the strength and beauty of our identities, even when society and, as of late, the government try to tell us otherwise. There's a quote I love: "We're all just walking each other home." Transitioning is like that. It's about you and the community you build and lean into. I've been blessed with a chosen family with cis and trans siblings and niblings who've walked beside me, cheering me on through every milestone and holding me up during every stumble. (There's a reason they called me Bambi at one point!) I've seen the power of trans joy, the magic of finding people who get it, and the healing from sharing our stories. So, what does transitioning mean to me as a Black trans woman who's lived through the highs and lows? It means freedom. It means taking back the narrative from those who tried writing it for me and penning my own. It means knowing that my worth isn't tied to how far I've transitioned, if I look "passable" one day or the other, or if surgeries have been completed. It means walking through this world as my authentic self, one stilettoed step at a time. And I've definitely gotten better at walking in these shoes.To anyone reading this who is navigating their own transition in this increasingly hostile world, know that you're not alone. Know that your journey is valid. Know that neither a presidential order nor a legislative act can take away your right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And know that transitioning isn't about perfection but progress. And progress, well, that's a beautiful thing.
