But family? That’s messier. My mum doesn’t always get it right. She won’t use my chosen name, although she did use it on some random paperwork I received on my birthday one year. I guess that’s something? My granddad still uses my old name and wonders what Granny would’ve thought. Maybe so do I. My brother says he’s still the eldest son. But my dad? He’s come around. If he slips up, he corrects himself. He uses my real name, backs me up when Mum doesn’t, and makes it clear he sees me for who I am. On my last birthday, when my family sang happy birthday and the song got to my name, Mum muttered “whatever it is,” but my dad didn’t let it slide – he said my name louder and prouder, like it was never in question. That mattered.
Other things changed too. Binding, for one. I started with sports bras – sometimes layering them, tight across my chest. Then came binders. They were painful. Heavy. Sensory hell. Eventually I tried transtape. It was a steep learning curve, but when I got it right, it changed everything. I could wear shirts that used to betray me. I could breathe and felt free, even though I was constricted. That, too, gave me confidence.
Medical transition gave me a kind of confidence I never had before. It wasn’t just the changes in my voice or body – it was the way people saw me. I could finally look in the mirror without flinching. I could walk into a room and not second-guess how I’d be read. It was in the small things too – handshakes at the drive-through, being called “mate,” joking around with guys who don’t know and don’t care. I learned that sometimes, joy looks like being forgotten – because in forgetting, they’re seeing me just as I am.
There were losses. I used to play premier women’s cricket. But I left – not because I wasn’t good, but because I heard how they talked about queer and trans people behind closed doors. I didn’t want to stay in a space that wouldn’t want me.
And there are things I’m still untangling. Like how some of the most affirming moments come from the strangest places – walking home at night and seeing a woman glance back and speed up. It’s awful that she’s afraid, but the reason she is? She sees me as a man. It shouldn’t mean anything – but it does. Because for so long, I wasn’t seen at all.
If you’d asked me to describe my gender back then – or even now – I’d just say: me. That’s all it’s ever been. Not a category. Just me.
If I could speak to my younger self, I’d say this: you don’t have to hide forever. It gets easier. Not always. Not everywhere. But the journey won’t stay stuck. You’ll find your people. Some family might come around. Some won’t. You’ll build your own.
One day, you’ll laugh at what used to make you cry. Someone will make a dumb joke about balls and you’ll just grin. Because it won’t sting anymore. Because you’ll love yourself more than you hate the weight of what the world tried to make you carry.
You’ll look in the mirror and finally recognise the reflection.
And you’ll think – yeah. That’s just me.
Words by Adam Ferris, Academic Skills Advisor at RMIT Library, on behalf of JW.
