Two Years In

Day 131 – April 3, 2026

Two years.

That’s what hit me today.

Two years of transition. Two years of becoming. Two years of fighting for the woman I already knew I was and then having to learn, in real time, what it means to live in a world that is equal parts beauty pageant, crime scene, social experiment, and deeply underfunded psychological circus.

Which is to say, a lot has happened.

And yes, technically I started earlier than that. But this the real beginning, the true embodied shift, the version of it that counts in my bones. This is what I mean when I say two years. Two years of living inside this becoming. Two years of carrying this body more honestly. Two years of growing into a woman I had spent so much of my life unable to fully touch.

That matters to me. More than I know how to say lightly.

Because transition, for me, was never cosmetic. It was never just presentation. Never some external makeover or aesthetic experiment, self optimization plan, or whatever empty conclusions society and the media provide. It was survival. Integrity. Relief. Revelation. Grief. Desire. Alignment. Risk. Tenderness. Terror. Joy. It was my life finally opening its mouth and saying the truth out loud.

And then, because life is sometimes unbelievably cruel in its timing, I was violated in that first year.

That sentence still makes me want to split something open.

Because there is a particular obscenity in finally becoming yourself, finally stepping into your body, finally beginning to live as the woman you are, only to have violence enter the room like it has some right to redefine your relationship to all of it.

It didn’t. It tried. It failed. But God, it tried.

And I think that’s part of what I’m sitting with today. Not just the beauty of two years. Not just the joy of myself, though that joy is real. Also the grit. The rage. The absolute nerve it has taken to keep pulling myself through for the woman I am and the woman I am still becoming.

Because that’s what this has been. A pulling through. Not some graceful float into selfhood. Not some easy cinematic glow up where I simply found my confidence, bought better bras, and ascended. Please.

This has been grit.

This has been me dragging my own soul through hell by the wrist and saying, No. She still gets to live. She still gets to have a body. She still gets to become. She still gets to be beautiful, sexual, complicated, visible, difficult, tender, hilarious, brilliant, and entirely too alive to be reduced by what was done to her.

That is what I’m proud of.

Not perfection. Fight. Not polish. Refusal.

Because there were plenty of chances for me to go dim. To let what happened make me smaller. To let trauma colonize my body so completely that it got mistaken for my identity. To let grief, fear, rage, and the cultural bullshit surrounding trans women turn me into someone quieter, flatter, easier to digest.

I didn’t. I won’t.

And that is not because I am untouched. I am deeply touched by all of it. Changed by it. Marked by it. Sharpened by it in ways I never would have chosen and now cannot undo.

But still I am here.

More woman, not less. More myself, not less. More dangerous in the best ways. More rooted. More real. And maybe, somehow, more radiant precisely because I have had to fight this hard to keep the light mine.

That’s what gets me today. Not “look how far I’ve come.” More like look what she had to walk through. Look what she had to protect. Look what she still insisted on becoming anyway.

That woman deserves everything.

She deserves softness. She deserves safety. She deserves to be adored correctly. She deserves peace that is not suspicious. She deserves desire without fear. She deserves to be seen not as a story of damage, but as a living, breathing, gorgeous, intelligent, hard earned woman whose existence is its own act of rebellion and beauty.

And maybe that’s what I want to say to her today. I see you. I know what it cost. I know how hard you fought. I know how badly it hurt. And I know you are still becoming.

Roger, of course, remains fully devoted to me in a way that suggests he has never once doubted me, my authority, or my right to be the emotional center of his entire giant block headed universe.

Which is exactly as it should be.

He has been here through so much of this. The shifts. The grief. The walks. The breakdowns. The softness. The rage. The mornings when becoming felt beautiful and the nights when surviving felt almost impossible.

He knows the woman I am.

No qualifiers. No debate. No theory. Just love.

That means something too.

Two years in, and here I am still pulling myself through. Still fighting for her. Still loving her. Still meeting her in the mirror. Still becoming someone the world may not fully know what to do with, which, if we’re being honest, sounds about right.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And me, two years into becoming the woman I was always meant to be, with more grit, more fight, more beauty, and more self than anyone who underestimated me could ever understand.