There are days when I wonder if the world will ever see me as I see myself. Not just as a body moving through space that others scrutinize, categorize, and misname—but as something expansive, limitless, uncontainable. I am more than what they call me. More than their projections (“it’s just a phase”), their discomfort, their expectations. And yet, I still feel the weight of it all pressing against me, asking me to shrink, to conform, to explain myself in a language that was never made for me.

Today was one of those days.

I walked into a room and watched as people calculated me, their eyes flickering with silent questions. Are they? Is she? What do I say? I felt the pause before the misgendering, the hesitation before the awkward correction. I carried it in my body, my shoulders tightening, my breath shallowing, my pulse quickening. The exhaustion of being perceived is a quiet kind of violence.

And yet, I still choose to be here. To take up space. To reclaim the joy that they tried to deny me.

I think about how they want to make me a lesson instead of a person. They want me to be patient while they stumble through the language of my existence, as if my presence is an inconvenience, as if I should be grateful they’re trying. But I am not here to be palatable. I am not here to make them comfortable. I am here to live. Fully, unapologetically, in the brilliant, messy, infinite way I was meant to.

I remind myself: I am not unnatural. Their fear is.

I remind myself: I was never meant to fit inside the lines they drew.

I remind myself: I am not beautiful despite being trans. I am beautiful because I am trans.

So tonight, I let the world fall away. I light a candle, let music fill my space, put my hands on my chest, and whisper my name like a prayer. A name I chose. A name that holds my history, my survival, my divinity. A name that is mine and mine alone.

Tomorrow, they will misname me again. They will question me again. They will look at me and try to define me by their own limitations.

But I will wake up, dress myself in joy, and remind them—I am not here to be understood. I am here to be free.

You are entitled to the reality of your experiences without having to justify them. You deserve to be addressed correctly, be seen for who you are, and exist without being reduced to stereotypes or aggressive narratives. And when others fail to honor that, you deserve a space to heal, be affirmed, and reclaim your power, vocabulary, and expression.