Many people wonder what gender dysphoria looks like for trans people. It’s a unique experience. For some, it’s an oscillating discomfort with how one feels in their skin, eased by temporary augmentations brought on by methods of binding, tucking, packing, and stuffing. For others it feels like a deep sense of disconnection to one’s physical body and a desire to permanently change it through surgery and/or hormones. I’m only just now learning what it looks like for me.
For many years, I’ve viewed my body as this beautiful muse. An artistic creation sculpted by unlikely genetic odds. I was gifted with a form others tell me they desire and that I photograph with a loving eye as I focus on the details of my unusual combination of angular lines and organic curves. But I don’t always feel grateful it belongs to me. I don’t look at my self portraits and see a body that I’m comfortable with other people viewing when they look my way. I see something inherently feminine. While my shoulders are somewhat broad, my chest relatively flat, my height a bit above average, I still hold noticeable breasts, wide hips, big eyes, long eyelashes, and a narrow jawline that couldn’t be mistaken for that of a biological man. These are parts of myself that for many years I thought were my saving grace against my masculine features. Years of my childhood were spent being teased for my small breasts in comparison to the friends I had at the time that bore D cups, if not more. I hated being different, lesser than, and I wanted what they had because I viewed them as attractive, desirable, and the societal preference. With time and distance from those people, my envy dissipated, but I still craved confidence through female sensuality. I dressed to accentuate my traditionally desirable assets with tight pants, daisy dukes, and cropped shirts. I wanted to be what I found myself attracted to, because what better way is there to love one’s appearance than to know you’d want to have sex with yourself if you weren’t you? The truth is, we are rarely attracted to ourselves. I think this may seem obvious to someone who is straight, but for a queer person that views all types of people as potential partners, the difference between what feels right on oneself and what is attractive in another person can be a slim gray line.
I recently forced myself to sit with this concept as I tossed it around in my head like a ball, thinking about one of my favorite artists who I view as one of the most beautiful people on this planet. I share many physical attributes with her, but I realized I don’t actually want to resemble her. On one hand, she is the image of softness and sensuality. On the other hand, the thought of sharing her level of femininity brings me deep discomfort. Back to the other hand, if I love the way she looks so much, doesn’t that mean I’d love myself more by sharing her physical form and therefore would experience less dysphoria? Another toss of the ball and I’m struck with the knowledge that loving oneself doesn’t mean being attracted to yourself in the sense that you’d actually approach a clone of yourself in the real world. It means feeling pride in who you are and how you present. And I’ve never truly wanted to present as women often do, I’ve only followed the compulsion to do so as I’ve been shown by the world that that was the road to confidence. If only I could find myself strutting down the street suggesting as much of my body as possible in sexy shoes with eye-catching makeup, I would feel untouchable and perfect. Except that practice usually pulled me into fear and physical discomfort.
Where does this bring me? Now, after a couple years since beginning my journey with identifying as genderqueer, and after 22 years of life, I’ve realized that I might actually prefer a flatter chest to a bigger one. I might be okay, happier even, with having a smaller ass that looks like it was made to be in mens’ pants. I still want to wear dresses for comfort, but I might prefer the ones that reduce my curves rather than accentuate them and therefore also harbor a desire to have a boxier body that resembles that of a man so that it looks more like a fashion statement and less like I’m hiding beneath a curtain. Maybe I want to be more muscular, not only for strength, but also for a sense of euphoria when I look in the mirror. Maybe I start binding regularly. Maybe I wear a packer. I could stop growing my nails out as long as possible and embrace the look of stubbier fingers. Maybe I’m not just uncomfortable in my femininity because it reduces my sense of safety around men, but also because it’s not a part of myself I’ve ever identified with, but that I previously felt pressured into fulfilling. I wonder if my desire to be the “protected” rather than the “protector” in a relationship has fueled my compulsion to remain sexual, dainty, and consumable. But I can be strong, not dress up to be eaten by the eyes of others, and prioritize my sense of self and still be loved by others in the way that feels most aligned with my emotional needs. I don’t want to dress to reel in a lover, anymore. I don’t want to pose myself for the male gaze when I use my physical form as my muse. The greatest muse is the heart of who I am. I will capture myself as I feel most myself. And that might look like presenting in every way I just described not enjoying right now. Because euphoria is fluid.
So what does gender dysphoria look like for me? I can’t distill all of those intricate nuances into words from the English language. I’m still not sure the details, myself. But I’m learning more every single day about who I am and how I want to be in this world. The most beautiful part of all of this is that it will never look exactly the same from one day to the next. I will always be expanding and contracting as I find my shape.