When I was a young girl, I got a thrill every time someone mistakenly called me my father’s son. It never occurred to me that this wasn’t the normal reaction. But I didn’t question it. I hated “girly things” but accepted it was because I was overweight and nothing fit and that I was a tomboy.
It wasn’t until three decades later that I began to understand why that was… it’d never dawned on me that I wasn’t stuck in the life dictated by my chromosomes. That there’s more to me than the genitalia beneath my clothes.
The problem is, by the time I figured this out, I was a wife and mother. My identity is largely wrapped up in gender defined roles: wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, niece… you get the drift. How do I break out of those boxes without shredding the relationships I’ve formed over the past four decades?
I don’t know where this road will take me. Some days, I’m terrified to take a single step. Others, I want to sprint ahead, no matter the consequences.
I don’t know where this road will take me, but it’s become apparent I need an outlet for my thoughts until I feel comfortable voicing them. Even now, I’m writing this post in my bed, constantly flipping to a new window because there are things I can’t say to the man who promised to love me for better or for worse. I’m not yet ready to know if this is all going to be too much for him.
The one thing that’s crystal clear is this is something I need to figure out. I’ve felt crazy for the past few months, but then I realized a Facebook profile I’d started with the intention of using as a writing platform is the one place I’ve been honest. Ironically, my fear as I connect with people on Quinn’s profile is they’ll feel deceived when they someday find out I’m me. I can only hope that by the time I’m ready to drop the curtain, people will see how much happier I am when I’m Quinn.