Pride/LGBTQ+
Identitas
Written for PRIDE month (June, UK)
IDENTITAS
Today begins like any other. My phone’s alarm rings out, and the glow of the warm morning sun creeps around the edges of the black-out blind that covers my small bedroom window. I glance at the clock to be sure of the time: 6:30 a.m. Time to get up, to face another day. I haul myself out of bed, feel the familiar pang of anxiety. Today is going to be different to yesterday, and the days and weeks before; today is the first day at my new job.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, take a deep breath — run my hand through my newly cut short hair. I’ve come a long way from the person I used to be. I’m more at ease with myself but, sometimes, when I look into the mirror, I still see a stranger looking back. That face, the one staring back at me is mine, but the eyes — they seem to belong to someone else.
I start my shower with a torrent of cold water to boost my endorphins. I need those feel-good hormones to improve my mood, reduce my stress levels, to remind myself I have every right to be here — to be my authentic self.
The ‘Welcome To Our Company’ letter suggests work attire should be smart-casual. I go to the wardrobe, dismiss my usual look: T-shirt, a pair of well-worn jeans, branded trainers. I decide on a white button-up shirt. The binder I wear underneath compresses my chest, makes me feel more at ease. It brings me comfort. I add beige trousers, brown brogues and a blue silk tie dotted with penguins — my Spirit Animal. The way these flightless birds wing their way through the ocean may not be the norm for most birds, but it’s natural to them. Penguins are at their happiest in water, even if other birds may not understand their choice. My Spirit Animal shows me being different is okay, that not every lifestyle, social restriction, or path is right for everyone.
Satisfied with my appearance, I lace up my shoes, grab my leather man-bag and head out of the door. The bus ride to the office is uneventful, no-one notices me — I’m just another sleepy commuter on life’s constant treadmill. I insert my ear buds, select a Tibetan meditation, let the chant drown out my thoughts. As the bus nears my stop, I take a deep breath and repeat my mantra: You’ve got this, Alex. You belong here. From a cohort of thirty candidates, they chose you.
The office building is sleek, modern, all glass and steel and no feel. Standing outside, I’m energised by a surge of adrenaline — I can do this. I straighten my back, walk through the revolving doors into the bustling lobby. The receptionist greets me with a wide, toothy smile, directs me to the elevator. My heart pounding in my chest, I ride up to the fifth floor. My new team-leader, Lotte, greets me with a firm handshake.
“Good morning, Alex! Welcome to the team!” Her monotone, flat intonation, and the rhythm of her clipped speech reflects her Dutch heritage. “Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything. I’ve got your back.” Her smile is genuine, warm. I feel some of my anxiety melting away.
Lotte introduces me to the rest of the team — a diverse group of individuals — Sean from Northern Ireland, Mac from the the US, Tilly from Liverpool, and then there’s Benedict who’ll be in later in the week, and Claire who’s officially on maternity leave but working, when needed, from home. They all seem friendly enough, welcoming even. I shake their hands, exchange pleasantries, pick up on one or two curious looks. I can’t help but wonder if they know. If they do, does it matter? Will it matter? Should it matter?
My first few days are a whirlwind of training sessions, inductions, meetings, workshops, getting to know my colleagues. I find solace in the familiarity of work and routine. Yet, there’s always that lingering fear of being discovered, unmasked, of someone putting two-and-two together, asking an invasive question, making a cruel comment. It’s exhausting, constantly being on guard, but I’m learning to navigate it — the weird looks, the sneers, personal comments — I’ve had to so many times before.
About a month in, during a team lunch, the chat around the table turns to weekend plans. I listen as my colleagues share details about their lives outside the office.
“What about you, Alex?” Sean says. “Any plans for the weekend.” I hesitate for a moment.
“Actually — I’ve just joined a team in the local LGBTQ+ football league. We have a match on Saturday afternoon.”
Sean raises his eyebrows, looks genuinely interested. “That sounds like fun! How did you get into that?”
“Er — I’ve always loved playing football, I was in the school team — played at Uni. Joining this league has been a great way to make new friends.”
Mac pipes up. “I’ve a friend back home who plays soccer,” he says in his Texan drawl “Maybe I could come and watch you play sometime. Get some tips to pass on.” He beams me a smile. I nod shyly. For the first time in a long while, I feel a fleeting sense of belonging. We talk more about the up-coming match, chat about the Premier League teams we support, and soon the conversation begins to flow naturally. It’s a small victory, but it means the world to me.
A couple of days later I walk past the Staff Room and over-hear Sean and Tilly talking.
“Have you heard the rumours that Alex is trans?” Sean whispers, as he stirs his tea.
“Yeah, I have,” Tilly replies. She shrugs her shoulders, “But, I like him — does it really matter?”
I pause, my heart pounding. Hearing Sean and Tilly whisper about me sends a chill down my spine. Part of me wants to burst in to the Staff Room and confront them. But, another part of me feels a familiar fear creeping in. What if the whole office finds out? Will they still respect me, or will I become an outcast, like before? I choose to keep walking, choose to not hear the rest of the exchange. I pretend I heard nothing.
Back home, the snippet of conversation lingers in my mind. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, my reflection seems more distorted than ever — Alexandra, Alex, Alexandra, Alex — even I’m confused. Each glance in the glass serves as a painful reminder of the disconnect between my external appearance and internal sense of self. I should have had the courage to confront Sean and Tilly. I should have said, “I heard you talking about me. If you have questions, ask me directly.” I imagine what their stunned faces would have looked like if I had — a reflection of my own anxiety. Standing up for myself would have been empowering. Instead, I question my place in the world, in the work-place. I wonder if I will ever truly be accepted for who I am — who I feel I am, who I know I am.
Today is going to be a tough day. My first solo project is due. I have to give a presentation to the team this afternoon. My probation period is coming to an end. I’m under immense pressure to deliver results. As I prepare for my talk, my hands tremble slightly. What if I mess up? What if my colleagues see me as incompetent? The success of my presentation will determine my future prospects within the company. All this adds a weighty significance to the task at hand.
I work at my desk, keep my head down, overhear snippets of a conversation — “Alex … trans …” Later, a coworker makes a snide remark about people like that — does she mean me? My heart sinks. The rumour is spreading, and the curious glances from some colleagues feel like daggers. I’m feeling particularly anxious, paranoid even. Am I being spied on? Am I the butt of someone’s jokes? I worry what clients will think if they find out. I struggle with the fear of being outed, judged, shunned. I worry that, once again, I’ll become drained of strength, unable to bear the discomfort of having to correct people when they misgender me.
I like this job, I want to build a career. I want to be free of the exhaustion that comes with constantly having to assert my identity, and the right to work in a safe and nonjudgmental space. After my lunch break, I find an anonymous note on my desk.
“Alex, your strength and authenticity inspire me. Keep being you — and good luck with the project and presentation.” Tears well up in my eyes. Someone out there sees me, understands my struggles, and appreciates my journey. I will continue to find strength in small victories — those moments when my colleagues respect me, use my correct pronouns, when they show genuine interest in my life — when they allow me into theirs, and see me for who I truly am — allow me to just be.
On the bus ride home, a group of teenagers start whispering and pointing at me. I hold my head high, look them in the eye. They turn away, giggling. Back home, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror again. This time, the reflection looking back at me feels more familiar, more like me. Alexandra’s image fades into the past and Alex’s image becomes sharper. I smile. I feel at peace. The presentation went well. I’ve come a long way. I know there will be challenges ahead, but I also know I have the strength to face them.
My name is Alex. I’m a trans man, and this is my story. It’s a story of resilience, of finding my place in the world, and of learning to love the person staring back at me in the mirror. Wish me well.
The above is a work of creative non-fiction researched by talking to those in the trans community. Thank you for reading.
