Between silence and the mirror

Sometimes, when the silence of night weighs more than the pillow, I catch myself imagining what it would be like to go back. Not because I want to. But because moving forward hurts too much. It hurts to lose. It hurts to be left. It hurts to be seen as a mistake instead of a rebirth.

I’ve lost people. People I swore would never leave. I’ve lost looks of pride. I’ve lost the “son” my father claimed to love with such fervor. And I wonder, in moments of nearly unbearable fragility, if I went back, would he come back too? Would I have that unhesitant embrace again? Could a dead name return a living love to me?

There are days when living authentically feels like a battle that never ends. A war against false smiles, against looks of contempt, against the fear that seeps from other people’s skin and bleeds into mine. Living as who I am is a constant act of resistance. And there are times I wonder if giving up would bring relief. If surrendering myself for a little rest would be understandable. Perhaps even forgivable.

And at the bottom of all that exhaustion lives a far deeper fear: the fear of being impossible to love. Not love in the superficial sense. But in the sense that someone would look at all of me, see my soul, my body under construction, my scars and my dreams, and still choose to stay. There are days when that feels like a foolish fantasy. And on those days, I fantasize about fitting back into that old mold. Not for myself. But so that maybe, just maybe, I could be loved.

Society squeezes. Pushes. Stretches and twists until you begin to doubt your own shape. And when you find yourself outside the mold, so exposed, so much a target, you start to believe it might be easier to give in. To be “normal.” To be what they expect, not what you are. It’s seductive, you know? The promise of belonging, even at the cost of your own truth, has a bitter but familiar taste.

But perhaps the cruelest thing of all is the fear of regret. Of one day looking back and thinking: I pushed too hard, went too far, lost too much. Sometimes the idea of going back feels like a way to protect yourself from the future. To not have to face a mirror twenty years from now and wonder if any of it was worth it. But what frightens me even more is the idea of a safe future where I am not myself.

And yet, even with all these wounds, there is something I cannot explain. A spark. A small flame that insists on not going out. Something inside me that says: you are on the right path. Even if it is lonely, even if it is hard, even if it costs nearly everything. There is a mysterious peace that lives in being who you are – even when everything outside says you should be someone else.

Because in the end, staying is an act of love. Love for yourself. Love for the child who once dreamed of freedom. Love for women like me, who came before and who will come after. Love for a truth that is greater than fear.

Detransition may look like an escape route. It may even look like a chance to reunite with what was lost. But perhaps what truly matters isn’t whether you go back or keep going. Perhaps what matters most is why you choose. And I choose to keep going. Not because it is easy, not because I have no doubts. But because, even with all the losses, this is the only choice that makes me feel alive.

And being alive, the way I am, is all I have left. And it is more than enough.