Anything But

At an informal dinner in the first month of 2024, someone told me she never would have known that I had once identified as trans. It was the first time I had traveled out of state to speak on the topic of detransition and meet with a group of parents, and she was a mother of a trans-identified girl. 

I knew she meant it as a compliment, just like others had meant to reassure me, but with each new utterance the words grew more distasteful to me. It had been three and a half years since the orchiectomy which triggered my regret and the ensuing detransition, and I was still a long way off from resolving the deeper tensions that had driven me to do it. 

It had taken me six months to recognize the damage, make sense of the hormonal catastrophe, find a therapist, and begin testosterone replacement therapy. It was another six months before I  had removed the breast implants and rejoined the workforce. Even then, I was tied to loose tenets of gender theory, framing my identity through feminist and sexological labels— never mind the true religious experience that had lifted me from my sin (and remains an ongoing process). 

Of course, reality hit when I rejoined the workforce. My practiced effeminacy had lingered, latent, through the long quarantine and recovery. It would take another month or two to wear off—but then what did I have to replace it with? Whatever native sense of masculinity I had prior to my transition had long since hollowed it. In three years, I felt I had barely caught up to where I should have been at the age of 19. 

So in January 2024, when someone who had only just laid their eyes on me said that she never would have known about my past, the words sailed right past me. But now, going on three years, the words return and nest inside me. If you were to give me a pill to make me forget everything about my past, everything before today, and set me back in my life for a week or two, I might say the same. I imagine myself through the eyes of coworkers, friends, and family members—I can even imagine myself through the eyes of history—and I understand why they might say it. 

But more importantly, I understand my life in its whole context. The great struggle of my salvation is won—was won long ago. My detransition was only the outer, visible part of an inner transformation, a reorientation from Self toward Christ. Perhaps the birth of my nephew and my family’s relocation to the West Coast to the Midwest facilitated this newfound maturity. It certainly provided distance from my past, and a new space to set up my home office. 

Completing my memoir, which is tentatively set for publication early next year was the final step of introspection. I rewrote my book more times than I can count. The most difficult chapters were the ones deepest in my transition; the emotions of my past demanded to be heard, and waged war on the wisdom of reflection. How could I explain such shamelessness?

It took one year and nine months to complete the manuscript. In the end, I was surprised by how strong my masculinity appeared (even in a brassiere). But its strength was in its restraint and plainspoken honesty, because I am a man and have never been anything but.