Wake up.

It’s so much harder to drag yourself out of bed now that the sun sleeps in. The warm blankets seem to whisper: don’t go! Stay a little longer. Sleep a little deeper. 

Alas, time waits for no man. 

Breakfast.

Stumble downstairs as best you can, eyes still bleary. The entire house is dark. Sit down at the kitchen table. 

Dad’s made breakfast like he does every morning. He barely glances at you, but he’s tired, too. You turn your head too fast, catch a glimpse of your reflection in the window. Mistake. It’s all right, it’s OK, your day can still be all right.

Get dressed.

Always the hardest part. You try so hard not to look, but there seems to be mirrors on every wall. Look down. Mistake. What to wear, what to wear. Are you going to put in the effort to look like a man, just to hear the word “sir”? Or not. Button down. Good enough. Grab your binder, a support tank top on steroids, and put it on. Deep breath in. Hold it. 

Front doors.

The security guards are gruff. They, like nearly all others who look at you, cannot see what you’re trying so hard to be. ID please, ma’am, they say. 

Clench your teeth and smile, it’s not worth the effort to correct them. 

It stings, though. Just a little bit. 

Second class.

A substitute. You’d thought you could get through the week without one, but the universe has fooled you again. 

You know what this means. Names of students tick down until the attendance sheet finally reaches yours. You knew what was going to come out of the sub’s mouth, but it still felt like a proverbial slap to the face: “Evelyn Clissold?” 

Not his fault. That didn’t make it hurt less, though. 

Fourth class.

She hasn’t gotten the pronouns correct yet. You know it’s the trying that counts, but when will trying turn into succeeding?

Lunch.

With lunch comes–

Bathroom.

The worst decision of the day. In every window you’ve been trying to see yourself for what others see. Do you pass? Is there really a man in this body? Right. You breathe in, plug in your earbuds, and walk into the men’s room. 

Oh god, it’s not empty. There’s at least three other guys in there, and they stare at you like you’re a specimen to be examined. Your face turns redder. There are too many pairs of eyes, and all the stalls you need are full. 

You can feel one of them about to say something, comment, accuse. You run out. Back into the women’s room.

Perhaps another day.

Gym.

You walk into the locker room they scavenged for your kind. It’s too empty, too big, like the air is only focused on you. Once you go to gym class it’s not as bad, your friends know your name. But the gym uniform leaves nothing to the imagination, and everything for you to desire. Try not to look.

Home.

No one stares here.

Shower.

The rule here is the same as in walking the world’s highest tightrope. Don’t look down. You can’t be the person who smells like they’ve been living in the woods, but it hurts so much to look at yourself. All of yourself. 

Your body won’t be yours for years, and even after it is, there will always be the faint memory of a pink-soaked little girl who stared in the mirror with pride. 

How would she look at you now?

Sleep.

This is the basic outline of my daily struggle. It’s hard for a lot of people to understand issues in the trans community; until they’re stared at in every public bathroom, until others refuse to respect or even acknowledge the pronouns that make them feel safe, until they wake up every day in the wrong body, they just don’t know what it’s like to be transgender. If we all open ourselves to new ideas, we will be able to understand each other better. With discussion comes empathy, with empathy comes understanding, and with understanding comes change.

Let’s start a conversation together.