The last several weeks have been trying, both because of the Covid shelter in place and because of the space it has opened up for me to feel things I hadn’t yet felt about my transition and the inevitable losses that have come with it.
As you might imagine, once I opened up to and accepted that I am trans, once I came out, there was such a rush of energy, most everything else was pushed to the side. The image I come back to over and again is that of a great prow, pointing forward and clearing everything in its way as I moved forward following in the cleared space to ride this great awakening. Fortunately, for me, my reception as Kay was amazingly positive, and the approbation and love I received from my professional community and from my family was intoxicatingly rich and energizing. I sailed along on the wind of my psyche and on the support and encouragement from the people around me. And, of course, I felt free, felt myself as never before, even as so much was new. All the small beautiful things that came my way, all the remembered things about being a woman, filled me in, and spilled me out.
This was wonderful, and I count my blessings daily that this was my experience. Everything, or at least most things, felt right, aligned and in harmony with my heart and soul. Yet, even as I danced down this new path in the light of my truth, there were other truths, not quite as happy, falling in behind me, steadily gaining ground as the energy of this new emerging identity solidified and took root in my daily life, as the first exuberant release of the expansive feminine energy dissipated and the prow dissolved into a more subtle directional, the needle of a compass as opposed to the great steel front of a steam engine.
Sheltering in place has given all of us more time than we might care to have to be still and reflect—so much less rushing here and there, so much more space for truth and reality to settle in around us. A few weeks ago, I was putting things away in my closet, clearing the clutter from the day and getting ready for bed. And, seemingly out of nowhere, I began to weep, deep gasping cries from a long quiet and hurting place I didn’t even know was there. It didn’t take long for me to realize what was happening—I was feeling the reality of all the loss that has come with my transition. I wept for the loss of my marriage, for the loss of the magic partnership my spouse and I shared, the loss of companionship and the loss of the sense of security that came with it. I mourned the loss of my kids’ childhoods, for the loss of being their dad.
So different were these emotions from what I had been feeling for the previous six months that at first, I balked, tried to quell the torrent of tears, the terrible sense of aloneness, the almost intolerable weight of grief. Then, as is so often the case now that I have accepted what might be seen as my most difficult truth, I knew I had to let go into this grief, had to accept the sadness, just as I had accepted the joy and ecstasy of my rebirth. And, so, I cried. I cried till the tears stopped. I sank deep into those feelings, named them, allowed them, acknowledged them, welcomed them as my own, as part of me, just as sure as I am now, Kay.
And, over the last few weeks, at irregular intervals, I have been taken by this grief, asked again and again to make space for it, to let it out and let it go. So what? Well, as obvious as it may seem, I have been challenged to situate Kay and my new identity squarely in reality. This is indeed a challenge. I live so often in my imagination, for that is where Kay began, where I got my first peeks at what I really wanted, I sometimes edit out painful truths, my own and those of others dear to me.
I continue to learn, to gain the strength to make room for the reality of these losses, to give myself the same love to these hurting places as I gave to myself when I was discovering and giving freedom to my new identity. Kay hasn’t emerged in opposition to these hard losses, rather she is enriched and given substance by embracing these experiences. I am reminded of my humanity, my own gentle spirit, and that there is always a cost for every act of freedom. For every truth we follow, there is a truth we leave behind, and even if the truths we leave behind are painful, we are made whole by recognizing them, by calling them by name, and by making room for them around our heart’s hearth.
Rather than seeing Kay, myself, as someone tenuous and insubstantial, I now understand myself as capable of feeling the difficult realities that come with a decision as great and terrible as transitioning. And even as there are things I might do differently, things I would have worked to avoid, I accept my limitations as mere mortal, accept that even as I grow, expand, and develop, that I can get better at feeling all of life, its light and its darkness, its hope and its despair, and I can rely on my deepest self to remind me that when I feel down, the best place to look for strength and renewal is up.
There is nothing from which to hide, no secret chambers of being that threaten harm. There is ever life, and possibility, and adventure. When we seek to climb, we must know there will be times we fall. Yet, losing ground doesn’t mean giving it up, it just means we have to get up and continue the journey. Hold your head up and keep on going, sisters, as you hold true. The truth will set us free.
Kay out.
Transgender Transcendentalism 