HolaPapi: 'I’m marinating in discomfort, yearning to come out of this process on the other side as a fully realized and visible nonbinary person, comfortable in queer spaces and unapologetic about being myself.' jpbrammer responds
Like many others, I realized I wasn’t a cisgender woman during the pandemic. After months of soul searching, I settled on a label that felt right: nonbinary transmasculine.
I processed all these big emotions privately through journaling and finding support from my online friends. Late last year, I started planning a move to New York City where I have a core group of supportive friends waiting for me in person. Just a few weeks ago, I finally made it here. I even went to a Pride event dressed in nonbinary flag colors, and it was great.
For months I’ve felt like I’ve been in a cocoon of metamorphosis, a gooey, undefined version of myself, and I don’t know what the end state is going to look like. I’m marinating in discomfort, yearning to come out of this process on the other side as a fully realized and visible nonbinary person, comfortable in queer spaces and unapologetic about being myself. But I’m so scared of the process of getting there and how long it might take, given the decades of repression I still have to unravel.
From there, the caterpillar cocoons itself and sets about becoming — I imagine it doing this very matter of factly, with a serious look on its caterpillar face — a butterfly, likely never once thinking in the dark of its temporary home, I can’t wait to be a butterfly, or asking, But what am I, who am I, here in the phase between caterpillar and butterfly?
Human life is a very different affair. We don’t intrinsically know who we’re supposed to become. And indeed, what makes humans unique is that we each become something unlike anyone else. There’s no moment of arrival, no moment where we realize, Hey, I have wings now! Metamorphosis, for us, happens in subtler shades. We are aware of ourselves, and as animals driven by and attracted to storytelling, we believe the journey needs to mean something.
Our wings tend to fold back up for long stretches of time. Our splendid colors rescind. The mission becomes unclear: What am I doing?
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