I did not, could not, transition on a whim; instead, I had to give up the home and family I knew because neither would accept me, and I hated that, still hate that, still cry over it. I had to be approved for hormone therapy first by a therapist, then an endocrinologist, all while being mis-gendered and mocked by hospital employees; I had to legally change my name, all while being mis-gendered and mocked, louder now, at the police station where I had to get fingerprinted, then at the court, where a clerk repeatedly and vociferously called me sir in front strangers; I had to humiliate myself countless times over the phone and in person when someone did not know what to do with my voice or appearance, including a police officer I feared would harm me when he saw the “M” on my ID before I got it changed. I had to fight the urge to kill myself, multiple times, from my despair at thinking I could never bear children and that no one could love a freakish body like my own, after hearing my own mother tell me this, after hearing men who had praised my beauty tell me how revolting I was upon learning I was trans.

A whim?
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