The first time someone called me a girl was at church. After I chose to get baptized at age fourteen, I never expected to hear something like that from someone in my life. It was my first boys’ church group meeting, and a fellow boy in the group asked me, “Why are you in the boys’ group? You are a girl.” I felt like he saw something in me I couldn’t yet accept in myself. I always felt out of place and never fit in with the boys around me. I hated being in that box; deep down, I knew I wanted to be in the girls’ group.
I grew up in a small town in Michigan. I was bullied ruthlessly. I was too soft, too feminine, too gay, too weak. I started posting online about mental health awareness in my early teens, and I noticed my followers were increasing. I shared my struggles with depression, anxiety, and bullying with the world; it was the only escape I had. Looking back, it feels more like I was crying for help. The social media popularity led to more bullying at school for me. I remember walking into a classroom and seeing my social media posts being projected on the whiteboard, and everyone laughed at me. I ran out of the room and cried. It got to the point that I left school and transferred to an online school while continuing to pursue social media.
At age fifteen, I remember feeling the worst pain I had ever experienced in my stomach, sweating and rocking back and forth in a lime green bathroom with a plastic trash can. I remember feeling like I was dying, and in fact, something inside me was. I sat in the bathtub throwing up for days into that small trash can. My parents called my doctor, and they were told to test my blood sugar. It was over three hundred, which meant I had type one diabetes. That same day, I had to start injecting myself with insulin before every single thing I eat or drink, for the rest of my life. As if the constant discrimination for being different wasn’t enough, here’s another thing that makes me weak and different. My body would never work like everyone else’s, and I already felt abnormal enough. I fell into a deep depression trying to process that part of me had died, and one of my organs was now dormant for life at age fifteen.
At age 19, after all the years of being harassed for my softness and my femininity, I decided to embrace those things and accept myself for who I am. I realized I wasn’t a boy, I wasn’t a man, and never will be. I came out as a transgender woman, and that was the first step I made in truly putting myself first. I changed my name, and I let my mother choose my new one. I started hormone replacement therapy, and less than a year later, I sold my beloved car, packed my life into bags, and moved across the country to Los Angeles for a fresh start. This was the biggest risk I have ever taken in my life. I was scared, but I craved a better life. I didn’t have a solid plan, but I believed in myself and my abilities. I knew people from LA but I quickly learned that friends in LA can be very superficial if you don’t have anything to offer. I learned to prioritize my happiness, spent a lot of time by the ocean, and even met the love of my life less than a year after I moved. Over time, LA became the place that feels most like home to me. I love it here.
Three years later, I’m making a living from social media, in a relationship with the most supportive boyfriend who loves me, and the mom of three beautiful cats. I never thought I would have my own family, never thought I would be loved for who I genuinely am, and frankly, I never thought I would be happy. I can confidently say I have all of those things now, which is why I am so glad I pushed through the darkness in my life, because now it is more beautiful than I ever could imagine. All of the hardships only made me stronger; they shaped me into who I am and taught me that if you can push through the darkness, light always perseveres. Life has a beautiful way of turning itself around.
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