Since coming out as trans, I have done a lot of things that I once thought were impossible. 

Things that have nothing to do with being transgender, but that were separated from me merely by the chasm of fear. For one thing: I’m a little better equipped for hard conversations. I’m a little more exercised in being humiliated. This can be freeing, in its own way.

There’s nothing quite like transitioning to teach you to be brave. Courage, like most skills, apparently can be practiced. In the same way that you never fully stop transitioning, you never really stop being brave once you come out to yourself.

It takes a lot of courage to weather and rebuild after being hit by the words (and actions) of your family and friends. Sometimes they launched these attacks intentionally, and other times even when not responding negatively, their ignorance and de facto rifts left by this change still hurt an incredible amount.

It hurts when I’m not invited either because I now present as a woman, or because I’m not really a woman to them. 

It hurts when I’m blamed for creating difficulties in the other person’s life. When the other person feels the need to explain me to their friends, and then also blames me for this.

It hurts when they ask me why. This has happened directly, “Why are you trans? How do you know? What caused this?”, and also in that fun, but super transparent way of asking “Why is anyone trans?”

It never stops hurting when someone asks me “Are you trans?” Even when it’s followed by, “No judgment, I’m just curious,” or hedged with, “I don’t know how to ask this, so please don’t feel offended or like you have to answer at all…” Sometimes it hurts because it cements my understanding that I never quite pass for a significant period of time, and also because I know I’m being judged for my transness.

I mean I get it. I complicate your life. Sorry.

But hey, you complicate mine!

You, all of you. 

Because you see, as many assumptions you might make about who I am or how others will respond, I have to make those same assumptions about every place I go and every person I meet.

This is not a safe world to be a trans-person in. 

It’s barely a safe world to be a cis-woman in. 

The map of safety which coming out has clued me into includes the continents of “Celebrating Me”, “Accepting Me,” and “Murdering Me”. It also has notable islands of “Talking Behind My Back”, and “Attacking Me Verbally or Physically”. 

At best, sometimes all I can hope for is “Oh I’ve Never Met a Transperson, What a Novelty Island” to be where a new person is camped out, but even that is just a short walk away from the more negative points on the atlas.

When I came out, I was able to pin, at least the starting location, of my friends and family. I hope that I’ve personally served to row people towards the sun in my own way, so that the next LGBTQ+ person they meet can mark them as a little safer, a little gentler. 

But I got to say, it’s really, really hard to never stop mapping as I live my life.

It’s just a brand new stress, a new datapoint to consider, a risk to be weighed whenever I go outside. It affects me in micro and macro ways, and I don’t know if it’ll ever be gone.

When I’m surrounded by allies, I can go to the restroom brazenly. I can speak loudly and allow my voice to be however it pleases. I can relax into who I want to be.

When I’m surrounded by the unknown (or worse, the explicitly hostile), I weigh whether it’s worth it to use the restroom. Either restroom, really, depending on how I’m presenting. I consider my words, knowing that any one of them could be the one to anchor me as a monster in their eyes. Each one is like a cannon shot at my ship; any mistake can sink me when I’m ‘passing’.

Someone once asked me why I wear LGBTQ+ pride so readily on my sleeve. (Often literally because I own several Rainbow or Pink/Blue Flagged T-Shirts, but also in the way I post on social media or mark it in my email signature.) The answer to this is at least twofold.

One, it allows me to not think about passing. If I’m openly-trans, that game evaporates. I’ve already conceded, so I do not have to worry about how well I’m playing.

Two, though, it presents me as an ally to everyone around me. 

This, of course, brings me to my point: 

Please, please, please, wear the pin. Hoist the colors. Buy the merchandise.

There’s so many LGBTQ+ people in the world that definitely face an even broader range of worries and stresses than I do, and I can’t express enough how much safer I feel when I walk into a restaurant showing the sticker, or when I see a house in a neighborhood flying a flag.

These are such vivid signals that even if I’m attacked or glared at by others in the vicinity, I can be assured that there’s allies close by. They grant me license to let my guard down, little by little. 

Not only might you be saving the life of someone who feels so alone, you might even be granting the small courtesy of helping someone not worry about “not drinking too much water at this event because I don’t want to deal with the bathroom situation”.

This is an immeasurable gift, and at such tiny cost to yourself.

So for all of the love you have of me, or your LGBTQ+ friends, or the community-at-large, or all of the future kids who are going to go through these challenges, for all of the claims you’ve ever made of ‘being a good person’, and for all of the times you haven’t been one: show those pride colors. You’re an ally, I give you permission. Please help normalize these things.

Plus, can we be real? 

Rainbows are awesome. They’re beautiful, and naturally match every outfit. 

Why not do whatever we can to add a little beauty to the world?

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“Why We Wear the Pin” is a chapter from my in-the-process-of-being-published novel, Cassandra Complex