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Transfem Trail Guide #2: What happens when you come home?

2025-09-29

*Disclaimer: This is my opinion based solely on my own personal experience, and a few articles in PubMed.*

At some point, you come home from the race and the euphoria begins to fade. Life resets to default. But has the default shifted? Is life fundamentally different now than it was before you toed the starting line?

Materially, not really; mentally, almost certainly.

How does someone go from the high of a lifetime back to a life they actively fear?

A researcher claimed, during her speech at SUU a few years ago (1), that the main determinant of health outcomes for minority populations is whether or not they have a place where they can be with people who let them put their guard down, people who will smile at them, sit near them, and be grateful they’re there.

I partially believe this. Having pockets of peace makes a world of difference, but it can’t make up for everything.

For me—and likely for many other early stage transitioners—the ebb and flow of life is like floating down a boiling river. The day-to-day feels hostile even with islands of respite. I found that my race experience completely altered my relationship to the river. Running and cycling is more positive and affirming and reliably brings me back to a strong sense of self, but moments of self-denial sting so much more. I won’t list the places I’m not currently out for obvious reasons; suffice it to say that there are many people who could be kind and loving that I’m not giving the opportunity to be kind and loving.

So returning to a day-to-day of self-denial isn’t just a daily reminder of “I don’t feel safe being openly trans.” It’s a constant self-confirmation of the lies that I’ve internalized:  that my identity as a trans woman is awkward, undesirable, and will ruin friendships. How on earth does someone cope with that?

The fix to these feelings might be as simple as it is painful: gather your things and see yourself out of hell. 
My mental image of hell resembles Dante’s Inferno. In my version of the inferno, there’s an escalator into the depths of hell, and to leave, you have to take the stairs. The stairs aren’t blocked or guarded, but you will climb through every layer of hell on your own two feet before you reach the exit. You have to own it. I have to own it. I may find myself in hell, but I know the exit. There’s no amount of mental gymnastics that can make a sheet of ice in layer nine feel like a mattress with satin sheets.

The stairs to leave my hell are clearly marked and even come with a little pamphlet explaining how to best take each step. It asks, “What can you do that will reinforce you are confident, safe, proud, present, and ready to give love to anyone who will receive it? What will remind you that you love who you are? How can you give your real self grace?”

Tomorrow, I’ll be reaching out to three friends and telling them I’m transgender. They’re openly supportive of queer communities and have demonstrated time and time again that they are my friends regardless of political opinion or world events. They are safe. Is the larger community of people that the four of us share safe? I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. But I will. I’ll cut ties if I need to.

To sum up: 
Having a life-changing positive experience may make the negative ones feel worse by comparison. That’s okay. There’s a way out. Try to find community where you are. Try to differentiate between fear generated from internal sources of shame or self-doubt and actual danger. Losing health care and losing a friend are not the same kind of danger. Remember, you should want friends who want to be friends with you. The real you.

I love you. You can do this.

1. <a href="https://www.suu.edu/apex/2024/02-15-diamond.html">Lisa Diamond (2024)</a>

HomebrewHappiness

Transfem Trail Guide #2: What happens when you come home?

Homebrew
Happiness