PRIDE 2025: Part II, Gender

My journey of sexuality was a clear one: after a lifetime of accumulating evidence, there was a singular moment of validation. I went from crushing on girls, to kissing girls, to that life-affirming night with the woman from the music show. The next morning, after she left, I thought, “Yep, I am absolutely, 100% not straight.” And anyone else would be hard-pressed to deny me that. I’d proven my queerness, as silly as that sounds.

My gender identity doesn’t have a clear narrative throughline. There was no night, no morning after, no moment when I could say, “Yep, this is who I am.” It was a slow accumulation of experiences, from Tonka trucks in my childhood, to body dysmorphia in my teens, to finding a new name for myself in my adulthood. I can’t remember the first time I referred to myself as genderfluid or nonbinary. I simply know that at some point, I started correcting people for referring to me as a woman. At some point, it felt right. It was like an impressionistic painting, where the image didn’t come together until it was nearly complete. 

Today, reflecting back on Pride month, I’d like to share a story — a brushstroke on the canvas of my identity:

Last year, my older sister put on a Bridgerton-themed murder mystery party. It was spectacular. And, of course, everyone had to dress up. I flew across the country to attend.

I admit, I got a little nervous.  I can imagine few things that would make me feel more uncomfortable, more dysphoric, than a regency-era dress. I physically cringed at the idea. So, amidst her planning, I asked my sister if she would mind me wearing a tailcoat instead. “I’ll still be on theme, of course,” I promised. “I’m just going to feel super uncomfortable in a dress like that.” 

Without skipping a beat, she replied, “I’m not the Regency gender police.” Then she went into great detail about the character she had already picked for me: the canonically-nonbinary artist with a secret distaste for high society.

It sounds silly, but I felt so seen in that moment. There was no hesitation. It was as if my gender identity was baked into her understanding of me. She’d already planned for it. She’d already made space for me. When we got off the phone call, I cried.  

Fast forward to the night of the party. I put on the crimson tailcoat I tailored for myself, fastening it over the white lace ascot. I smoothed the coat and touched up the glitter on my cheeks. I felt so good. I felt beautiful, and handsome, and pretty, and dashing. I felt like me.

These days, my self-image is clearer. My gender feels less like a series of painted dots, and more like a room full of impressionistic canvases. There’s a painting of a little girl playing with her brother’s toys. A painting of surgery scars. A painting of trembling hands holding a Decree of Name Change. And, a personal favorite: a painting of a person feeling beautiful, feeling seen, in a crimson tailcoat.

Pride 2025 is a three-part series, each exploring different aspects of my identity. Check out last week’s story, “Sexuality,” and stay tuned next week for the final installment.