Always Anastacia

I stand in front of the mirror as I remind myself that I no longer have to wear the 'uniform'. I can grow my nails, and paint them. I am free, finally, to have my ears pierced. I can use the voice that I've spent so many hours meticulously cultivating with my speech therapist. I no longer have to hide my disgust at being called boet or sir, or tolerate any references to my deadname. I have fought hard, held back for decades by a body that did not fit and an identity that did not belong. At first, it had seemed like transition was a vague and unattainable aspiration, a romantic ideal that was incompatible with reality. But now – after five months of hormone therapy, countless sessions of painful laser hair removal and multiple appointments with doctors and psychologists – it is very much a reality . . .