This is a story about a skirt. Well, kind of. The skirt plays a big role, but it’s really about a girl trying to exist in a world not built for her. It’s a story about accepting who you are and not being afraid to let others see you as well. It’s a story about being transgender.
You’ll hear a lot of transgender people say they “knew since they were little” that they’d been assigned the wrong gender at birth. I’m not one of them. My story doesn’t fit the Hallmark movie aesthetic, but that doesn’t make it any less valid. I can remember as far back as Kindergarten wishing I could be a girl, but I didn’t grow up wanting to change my gender (mostly because I didn’t even know that was an option in the late 80’s to early 90’s). I knew I was more comfortable around girls. I knew I liked “girl stuff” as much as I liked “boy stuff”, but I wasn’t allowed to. I knew being in groups of men always made me feel uneasy.
It wasn’t until my early twenties that body dysphoria (feeling that your body doesn’t match who you are inside) hit me like a truck. This was when I first started hearing about transgender even being a thing. This is where the skirt comes in. I was walking alone down the streets of downtown Boone, North Carolina (was going to Appalachian State at the time; GO MOUNTAINEERS!). There was this cute little hippie clothing store with stuff in the window that caught my eye. Stuff I could never wear, of course. But I still liked to look at it and imagine getting to wear it.
Finding a surge of bravery, I went into the shop and started browsing. There was no one in there save for the the lady behind the counter. But she greeted me with a smile. I perused the clothes on the racks, liking a lot of what I saw. I came to a skirt that caught my attention. It was an ankle-length and flowy with a bohemian-chic vibe that just clicked with me. The girl at the counter wasn’t giving me weird looks for browsing the skirts, so I pushed my luck and asked to try it on. She let me in the changing room and I tried on the skirt. I loved the look of it. I loved the feel of it. I loved seeing it on my body (even though I hated my body).
I bought it. She rang me up and I went back home with my new skirt. I was so proud of myself; I’d done something girls were allowed to do. Something as mundane as buying a skirt is like climbing a mountain when society tells you you’re not allowed to do it. Any time I was just hanging around the house, I wore my skirt. I never left the house with it on. After all, that would be just asking for trouble. It made me want more feminine experiences. I bought some more clothes; a blouse here, a pair of jeans there. A few things of makeup found their way into my collection too. I opened up new online accounts with a female name. The anonymity of the web allowed me to be me without the shackles of my body hiding my true identity. With each step I grew more brazen. Each new milestone brought a sense of accomplishment, but also a hunger for more. I knew I wanted to transition, to live as the woman I actually was.
But a journey can only be easy for so long, and before long I hit a wall. Up until now, authentic gender expression was an occasional fling. Any further down the path would mean crossing the threshold into permanency. I wanted it…Christ how I wanted it, but beyond that wall was an uncaring world ready to push back. I could never come out at work or to my parents. In my time online with other trans people I’d heard horror stories of unemployment and homelessness. Post after post told of family who’d cast them out or spouses who’d abandoned them. I knew my parents would never accept me and that coming out would be an undue hardship on my then girlfriend (now wife) whom I deeply loved. It just wasn’t possible, wasn’t meant to be.
All at once I declared that it was over. I deleted my online accounts and committed myself to living as a man. I let my facial hair grow out and got my hair cut short again. My circle of friends became people who represented what I thought a man should be. More and more I tried to take on the persona of a “manly man”. I became the person society wanted me to be, or at least I pretended to. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t me. I didn’t want to be that person, and the constant pretending left me horribly depressed. I went through a purge. Everything feminine I’d acquired either went in the trash or was donated to charity. Everything except that skirt. I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. I held it balled up in my fist over the give-away box on the floor. I’d stare at it, contemplating the decision, but ultimately conceded to bury it in the back of my closet (a fitting metaphor).
Friends and family could always tell. “What’s wrong, Joe?” they’d ask. “Are you okay?” I’d lie and say I was tired, or had work stuff on my mind. But it was a constant thing. I didn’t want to see friends, or if I did go out with people I spent the whole time just wanting to go home and be alone. A shower became my favorite part of the day. It was the only place I was guaranteed to be alone. It was where I didn’t have to hold my face a certain way, where no one would know I was crying.
It would eventually become too much to bear and I’d try again. When you deprive yourself completely, previous progress can feel new again. The skirt was the first thing to come back out. Wearing it around the house again was a great release. Putting on makeup when no one else was home felt validating. Of course, like before, it was never enough, and I’d crave a fuller feminine experience. When I’d come again to the same wall, the purge would begin again. The cycle always came to the same point of me trying to get rid of the skirt. I tried to make myself. I’d toss it in the giveaway box only to pull it out again before taking it to the donation center. I was absolutely certain I’d never transition, never live as myself. Still, giving up that skirt was letting go of the last shred of hope, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Even when I was at my lowest, even when I was trying so hard to be a man because that’s what was expected of me, I took solace in knowing that skirt was tucked away at the back of the closet. It was my tiny little hope that maybe, just maybe, someday I’d get to live as myself. It was my tiny little light in an endless darkness, and I couldn’t bring myself to let it go.
This cycle went on for nearly a decade. Each time my depression got worse. I’d contemplated suicide before, but it reached a point of taking over my thoughts. Every waking moment, my mind was filled with scenarios. How would I do it? Where would I do it? What note would I leave? What would my family do without me (we had a child by this point)? When you catch yourself on your insurance company’s website researching whether or not they will pay out for a suicide, you know you’ve hit the bottom.
I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t start the cycle again because by now I knew exactly where it would lead. There were only two options left to me: live authentically or finally give into the dark voices and check out. My wife and I had a long talk about it and she gave me her support to finally transition. It was time to stop the cycle and break free.
The journey began again, but this time I smashed through the walls. I took steps there was no coming back from. Coming out at work was terrifying, but I was thankfully allowed to transition and keep my job (very lucky). Telling my parents was the hardest part. Nothing upends a seemingly functional family quite like a gender dysphoria admission. Truthfully, we’re still picking up the pieces. Still, I got through it. It was one of the hardest walls for me to punch through, and now it’s behind me.
Before long I was waking up and going to bed every day as Faith. There was no more pretending, no more assuming the role of the man everyone thought I was. It was liberating. My depression and anxiety lessened. My suicidal thoughts evaporated. I enjoyed time with friends again, going from a somber recluce to a social butterfly in a matter of months. And even though our relationship remains a little shaky, my dad told me I was smiling more authentically than he’d seen me do in years.
There were many milestones along the way. I started hormones. I had my facial hair removed with laser treatments. I gave away all of my boy clothes to make room for my new wardrobe that slowly took over my closet. Back in March of 2017, I took my last trip to the courthouse where the Clerk of Court handed me a piece of paper declaring that Faith was now my legal name. On that final leg of the journey, I wore my old green skirt. For years I’d wandered in darkness, absolutely certain that there was no hope for me out there. There was no better, no happiness, no fulfillment. Still, I’d held onto that skirt for so many years, letting it represent the tiniest little bit of ‘maybe’ I could cling to. Maybe one day it will happen. Maybe one day I’ll get to live as myself. Maybe one day I won’t have to hurt anymore. Well, maybe had finally come to pass, and it was only fitting that I wear that skirt as I achieved what I’d been so sure was impossible.
So I say to you, find something that keeps your hope alive. It can be something small: a picture, a piece of clothing, a note, anything. As long as it represents to you the notion that the darkness doesn’t have to last forever. Keep that hope close, never let it go. Never allow yourself to abandon it. My skirt always reminded me of how I felt when I bought it. I wanted to feel like that every day. That skirt kept the memory alive, the memory kept the dream alive, and the dream finally changed my life.
Hold onto your hope. Hold onto that one thing that reminds you it’s not forever, that you can get through it as long as you don’t give up. When you hold onto the light, it will eventually drive out the darkness.
