I’ve overcome fears that don’t scream loud but echo. Quiet ones. The kind that pull up a chair and settle into your bones.
I feared that becoming me would cost me everyone, and for a while, it did. I feared my voice would never drop far enough for the world to let me be. Feared mirrors, waiting rooms and ID checks. I feared that no matter how hard I tried, I’d still be some ghost caught between versions.
But I transitioned anyway. I started long before most people understood. Seven years before she died, I was already halfway home to myself.
And my mom… she didn’t just accept me. She showed up. She took care of me after surgery. Made sure I had soft blankets and real food. Talked to nurses when I couldn’t. Sat by my side with her steady warmth when the world felt too heavy to hold. She loved me as her son, not after time, not with hesitation, but with her whole heart.
I thought that meant I’d have more time. That she’d be around to see the rest of me grow into the man she already believed in.
But life doesn’t ask for timing. It just takes. Losing her wasn’t a dramatic moment. It was slow, then sudden, and then everything was different. The fear that followed wasn’t about being trans anymore. It was about being here without her. How do you keep going when the person who provided unconditional love is no longer here? How do you continue when those words are no longer spoken?
That’s the fear I never knew how to name, learning to live without her.
But somehow, I kept going. I carried her voice in the wind. In old voicemails. In the way, I still make tea like she did. I kept writing. Kept healing. I didn’t stop transitioning. I just started becoming someone who was able to grieve and grow.
So what fears have I overcome?
Plenty still reside in my ribs. I’ve stared down identity loss, transphobia, surgery scars. Then the bottomless grief of losing the one person who held it all together. I’ve found home in my reflection. I’ve become a man she’d still recognize, and be proud of.
And I learned that love can outlive the body.
That becoming isn’t something you do until someone dies.
It’s something you keep doing, because they loved you enough to help you start.
