I came out as transgender to my wife on February 2, Groundhog Day, because I possess a fine sense of irony. I spoke to her indoors so I didn’t see my shadow, thus ensuring I wouldn’t retreat into any other obscurity.
My first therapy appointment was the next day and pretty much confirmed my gender dysphoria. At the end, my therapist delicately asked if I would be comfortable attending the next session dressed as female. Hopefully, my enthusiasm didn’t disturb her. It seems I had no fear of looking, sounding and acting like a woman.
This was the start of my personal Spring, and a slow-rolling, meandering, organic and not-really-planned coming out party.
After shocking my family, I found that telling anyone else was surprisingly easy. “My name is Elizabeth but please call me Lisa. I’m transgender,” became a sort of re-introductory greeting to close friends, neighbors, doctors and other victims. All delivered in a femme voice while wearing femme clothing.
Not that my party was entirely in person to show off my stylish wardrobe. Some conversations were over the phone, on Discord, on Skype and group outings on Slack. I’m a very connected girl.
And I never felt embarrassed during any of these. Instead, they were all liberating.
While some in my family struggled with the revelation, everyone else seemed to be delighted and supportive. Each encounter was a truly gender affirming experience. It became an easy way to get a dopamine hit. A drug like no other.
Now that I’m out to everyone, I suppose I’ll have to go on the wagon.
Still, not everything was easy. And even though the initial conversation with my wife was difficult and awkward, coming out to myself a week earlier was even harder. But that’s a story for another time.