First things first: my name has always been
Sam. That’s been the easiest part of this whole journey; I never had to change my name.
Well, legally I went from Samantha to Samuel, but even as a kid, I was always Sam or Sammy.
Well, except my Mom…Whoops, I got carried away there – you probably have no idea who
I am or what I’m talking about! Well, you can probably tell already, I’m trans. I
began transitioning when I was 18, right after I moved out of my parent’s house. Hi! My
name is Sam, I’m a transgender guy, and this is my story.
Some parents of transgender kids say that they always knew something was…different.
Then they pull out the childhood photos and you see picture after picture of a little
boy in makeup and high heels, or a little girl in blue jeans covered in mud. Honestly,
I think it’s fine for a boy to like fancy dresses or a girl to like mud and cars, and
none of that makes you transgender at all! I might just be biased, though, because I
was never a real tomboy like in all of those stories. I still wore dresses, and had long
hair. Still, I was definitely too much of a tomboy for my incredibly feminine, elegant
mother, who wanted a little frilly ballerina to show off. Ballet wasn’t for me. Nope,
I picked football, hockey, martial arts. And I was good, too.
This is probably the time to mention that I grew up in a pretty conservative town. It
isn’t like…Bible belt insanity here, but most people have a close-minded view of the
world, even if they aren’t insanely homophobic, transphobic and racist. I guess it’s the
way things go with small towns – most people here know each other, a lot of them grew up
together, and they don’t like change, even if it’s for the better.
Was I bullied for playing football? Absolutely not. Did I almost exclusively hang out with
boys at school, because I thought their games were more fun? I sure did. And did that fact
bother my mother to the ends of the earth? You bet it did. I still don’t know exactly
what Mom’s beef with my vague tomboyish behavior was. Sometimes I think it’s because
she already had two sons – my older brothers – so when she found out she was having a
daughter, she pictured raising a a little mini-me. A sweet, soft-spoken little girl
(now is the time to mention that I am VERY loud and boisterous - always have been, even
before I could talk) she could dress up in cute clothes, who was always clean and pretty
and smelled nice. I guess if your expectations are that high, you’ll always be disappointed.
When I hit puberty, I started to realize that I was definitely not like everyone else I
knew. I actually thought I was asexual for a long time, because the idea of being a lesbian
or even allowing myself to feel attraction to girls felt so alien and strange. I solved
this problem temporarily by dating absolutely no one during high school, refusing to take
a date to any event, and getting insanely defensive whenever the subject of boys, romance
or marriage (yeah, it was one of THOSE small towns) came up. So yeah, I was thinking I
was being pretty secretive, but really all I did was succeed at doing the exact opposite
and letting everyone know I was into girls. When senior year came and everyone was applying
to colleges, I knew I wanted to go as far away as I could. Well, no, not as far away
as I could. I did want to stay in the same country as my family. I only had two requirements:
it had to be a big city, and it had to be liberal. I couldn’t even admit to myself
why I needed a liberal city, I just knew that’s where I belonged. Right around that time,
too, I started avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t know if it was all
the sports or what, but for some reason I hit puberty late, and had only just started
gaining weight and getting curvy. I missed my angular, boyish body, and seeing my breasts
and butt felt so wrong. I began dressing in baggier clothes so I didn’t have to think
about why I felt the way I did. So I moved to my new city, in my old baggy
clothes, ready to start a new chapter in my life. On the ride there, I had no idea why,
but I started crying. I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders as I watched
my old life disappear into the distance. But at the same time, I was terrified, moving
into the unknown all on my own. I had a single dorm on campus, a couple of suitcases, and
no real friends. I mean, there were a couple people from my hometown I hung out with sometimes,
friends from school, but I knew we had no real connection. It was all just on the surface.
Things started to turn around for me as soon as classes started. I planned on majoring
in English literature, and the kids in my classes were about as different from the people
in my small conservative town as possible. Girls with tattoos, guys with dyed hair, and
it seemed like everyone had piercings …I started to make friends quickly. I’ve always
been pretty laid back and good at talking to people, and these were people I really
WANTED to talk to. Within weeks I had my crew, complete with a group chat for memes and a
hangout every weekend to watch movies and smoke. Now, I know some people don’t believe
in gaydar, but I do, because almost every single person in my new group of friends was
gay, lesbian or bi. I never had a moment where I came out to anyone, or even when I came
out to myself. I just knew that I had always liked girls, and had tried to suppress it,
and now I didn’t have to anymore. Even though I had this amazing core group
of friends and was coming close to accepting my sexuality for what it was, my issues with
body image were getting worse. I felt like I was an alien living on a foreign planet.
The way I felt and the way I actually looked didn’t match up at all, and every time I
looked in the mirror, reality came crashing down on me with a thud. There was only so
much I could do to avoid mirrors, avoid photos and avoid real life.
One Friday night, I drank way too much vodka and found myself in some frat house bathroom,
staring at my reflection in the mirror while tears silently ran down my face. My friend
Carly burst through the door looking for me, but stopped as soon as she saw me.
“What’s wrong Sam?” she asked softly. She took me by the arm and led me outside.
We sat down silently on a broken old couch in the garden. I couldn’t even answer for
a while, just howled and cried like a baby. I was scared. I had no idea how to explain
how I felt. “I feel like I’m living a lie,” I finally
sobbed. “Sam…if this is about you not being straight,
believe me, we’ve all figured it out by now.”
I felt this flood of relief wash over me. My friends accepted me no matter what. In
stuttering, broken sentences, I tried to explain how I missed my old boyish body, how I felt
like I was living in a shell that was nothing like me at all, how I didn’t have an eating
disorder but I still thought about starving myself so I wouldn’t have breasts anymore.
Then I started to admit things that I’d never even admitted to myself until now, like
how people calling me a girl made my skin crawl. I wanted a girlfriend, I explained,
but I never wanted to BE a girlfriend. “Sam,” Carly said, “Would you want to
be a boyfriend? Would it make a difference if people called you a boy?”
Yes, it would make a difference. Just hearing her say it made me break down even more. I
was just crying and nodding, “Yes, yes, yes.”
The next day, once my hangover had faded enough for me to be functional, Carly dragged me
to the student health center and helped me make an appointment to see a counselor. She
told me they had queer support specifically, so I could talk to someone who understood
where I was coming from and didn’t think I was a lunatic. And I did. It was the hardest
thing I think I’ve ever done, saying those words sober: “I think I am transgender.
I think I’m a boy.” It was hard the second time, with the doctor, and even harder the
third time when I gathered my friends together and told them I had something to tell them.
But over time, it started to get easier, the more I said it.
I haven’t started testosterone therapy, or had surgery, or anything like that. I’m
not sure how I feel about that stuff yet, and besides, you have to go through a lot
of counseling and doctor’s appointments and all before they’ll prescribe the drugs
you need to start a physical transition. I think, though, that right now, testosterone
looks like a good choice for me, and I’m looking forward to the day when I’m given
that option. I went shopping and I found a binder I could wear to make my breasts less
obvious, and after a lot of hesitation, I went shopping in a men’s clothing store
and found men’s clothes that fit me properly instead of baggy clothes that hid my whole
body. I kept my hair long. I guess you could say I wear it in a man bun mostly. But you
know what? I like my long hair, and I’m not going to change it.
The hardest part – the REAL hardest part – came during our first semester break when
I went home. I thought about just avoiding the whole conversation forever, but I knew
that wasn’t right. Carly offered to come with me for support, and I really thought
hard about accepting her offer, but I knew I had to tell my parents alone. Besides, I
was thinking about asking her to be my girlfriend, and coming out to my family wasn’t exactly
a romantic occasion. Everyone was home so Mom, Dad and my two older
brothers were all there for dinner. I could tell they all knew something was up, and they
definitely noticed that I was dressing differently. I waited until dinner was over, and then I
stood up. “I have something to tell you…” I began,
my voice shaking. “I know you might have noticed I’ve been changing for a while,
but at school, I realized why I’ve had these feelings I’ve been dealing with all my life.
I am transgender. And I am starting the transition to my life as a man.”
The room erupted. Both of my brothers launched across the table to hug me, bless their souls.
Mom, on the other hand, burst into tears. I’m still working on winning her over. I
mean, I do sort of understand…it’s like mourning the loss of a daughter, but Dad says
that she loves me no matter what, she’s just going to take time to process things.
Dad, on the other hand, said he’d always had a suspicion I was different. I’m not
sure how true that is, but I’m going to take it as a compliment.
My relationship with Mom is still strange. I feel like I broke her heart a little bit,
which is unfair, but she’s been texting me more and Dad says she’s starting to refer
to me as her son. I haven’t asked Carly to be my girlfriend YET, but I’m going to,
and I think she might say yes. Throughout all of this, there’s one thing
I’ll always be glad of: my name will always be Sam.
Thank you for listening to my story. The more I tell it, the easier it gets. And it’s
still ongoing…my journey is just beginning, and I am so excited for my future. Please
remember to be kind to your loved ones, and try your hardest to accept people for who
they are, even if you don’t understand it. And, don’t forget to like and subscribe
for more stories like mine.
