Drinking the gender fluid

Gender fluid is a crisp, hydrating mineral water that snaps, electrifying your tongue as you speak the words you didn't know needed to be said. It's a little unfamiliar if you've only ever been given one option. It's the sweetest feeling on the lips; it keeps the skin glowing with the knowledge of what has been missing. The rush makes you realize the tap water you've been drinking is fine, but this? This is what I want to be drinking for the rest of my life. 

At least that's my experience.  

Everyone has those childhood photos where we look back and think, “yeah… I probably should have known I was [insert orientation or identity here].” I was always sporting the unintentional androgyny that comes with wearing athletic gear even when I wasn't on my way to the gym or practice. This was a time before athleisure, so no, it wasn’t perceived as “cute.” I felt out of place. Until I started my first job, where I met the most incredible trans woman. She taught me the language to express how I was feeling, that I wasn’t the only person feeling that way, and that there was a community I fit into effortlessly by just being myself. 

The support of the queer community allowed me to continue exploring my identity, ultimately bringing me to my understanding of who I am today. There are two parts to my winding story of coming out and coming to know myself: My choice to undergo a hysterectomy (and the complex ways this physical change affects my body and identity), and my identification as non-binary—a story that continues to messily tell itself each day I am alive.

The power of casual recognition

In the most unassuming bar in Manchester, New Hampshire, where it only costs $1 to play pool (yes, unheard of past 1999), I stood there in my flame-covered Guy Fieri bowling shirt, wide leg black pants, and Converse with rainbow lightning bolts. Finally, I felt comfortable after playing “Corporate Girlboss” all day: long black dress, high heels, shapewear smoothing out every possible bump, meetings in the conference room from 9am—5pm, mandatory team dinner 6pm—8pm. 

Upstairs in the pool room, there were some quarter games pressed against the back wall, lit up by the glowing green Jameson Whiskey sign. We claimed an 8-seater opposite a group of guys, placed 4 quarters into the pool table, and the balls came tumbling out. Davis, my work husband, and Westin, my work bestie, found what looked like a drum stick and were trying to use it instead of the regular pool stick—hilarious with the right buzz. Westin shouted to me across the table, “Josh you have to record this shot!”—Davis inevitably missed. 

As I reached the end of my drink, I knew I would need to go to the restroom soon. Since my hysterectomy seven months prior, my body does not tell me when I need to go. It waits until I am about to burst before sending shooting pain throughout my abdomen, sometimes causing me to double over—just like I did when suffering from endometriosis pain before the procedure. Nobody told me about that. So there I went, unwilling to wait to find out the hard way that I needed to pee. 

Afterward, we played a game of pool, did our usual shit talking, and Davis and I strategized on the next ball. Westin and Davis made it easy for me to be “Josh” in public, rather than lying to strangers, as I often did, by offering a name that wouldn’t be met with questions, like Amy or Renee. Davis stood up to give me space, I bent over the green, illuminated by the offensively bright Pabst Blue Ribbon ceiling light, when a polo-clad stranger we were playing with, said, “Josh is about to shoot, look what they’re doing.” 

“Did you just refer to me using they/them pronouns?”

That was a memorable shot of gender fluid. The sweet, crisp, snap of chilled mineral water, straight from the bottle. This casual, unprompted acknowledgement filled me with a cool rush of energy that made me feel seen; something I didn’t even know was missing. For someone to see and understand me, without having to go on my whole spiel, removed all anxieties from my body. Instead of having to explain away who I am, that shot validated everything I had gone through in life.

On scars and freedom

My coming out story, and the series of events that led up to the permanent decision to remove my reproductive system, form a winding tale. But a neat narrative has never satisfied me, anyway. 

What I have instead is a messy collection of contradictions and questions. I was told recovery would take eight weeks. I avoided looking at social media too much, as the stories I found there were all pretty similar to one another, and dissimilar to mine: cis women in their forties, married, finished with reproduction, politely done with their uteruses—making the decision with their families, like closing a chapter in a well-planned storybook with a happy ending. Theirs was a choice, while mine felt like a moral failure. 

I was simply tired of carrying around this useless organ, allowing the endometriosis to shoot lightning bolts of pain through my back and legs, swelling my abdomen about 2 inches every month. My estrogen-swollen breasts were read as an invitation, a billboard for fertility, while my ovaries were a contradiction. There was no chance of pregnancy, there probably never had been, and that discovery during my diagnostic laparoscopy felt humiliating. But what people—men specifically—saw instead was a full-figured spectacle: my swollen breasts, my estrogen-hydrated skin, my “healthier” looking hair. There is something extra cruel about being ogled while suffering. 

Now that those strict patriarchal standards were no longer controlling me, there would be freedom! Or was it freefall? In eight weeks, I was supposed to be healed. Why, then, following the surgery, did I feel worse than ever before? 

Was it because I did it wrong? Because I did not follow the Pinterest momma vision board? Because I was made of too many contradictions? Over the next two months I would severely overcompensate for my perceived loss of womanhood. I spent considerable amounts of money on salon services: hair extensions, waxing, nails—all in hopes to feel better. I did therapy once a week, trying to figure out how to grieve the loss. I had so much support during this time, but still it was a struggle. 

At 12 weeks, the port in my belly button, used to expand the abdomen during the operation, fell out—about four weeks later than the expected timeframe offered by doctors. Given that it’s the size of a quarter, simple tasks like picking something up or bending backwards became incredibly painful. Around week 20, I felt confident lifting and carrying some things, and it just happened to coincide with Pride Month. I was off all the heavy painkillers, my hormones were settling down, my body regaining a sense of stability, both literally and figuratively. The beginning of Pride Month was electrifying. One of my friends, who was recently out, came to visit and attend the parade with another one of my non-binary besties. At one point during the celebrations, someone holding the trans flag gave it to me, and it felt incredible to be seen flying it. 

I didn’t think much of the surgery as I partied through the rest of June and July, admiring my estrogen-lacking deflating chest, enjoying the lessening pain, the growing strength in my core, slowly but surely each day. By that fateful work trip in August, what I had thought of as simply another opportunity to conduct myself professionally, embodying the familiar facade, turned into something else. That 30-second exchange at the bar changed everything. People perceived me in a way that I couldn’t yet perceive myself. Seeing me reflected like this, in the eyes of a complete stranger, gave me the confidence to feel that it’s okay to be this way. Being seen didn’t create my personal identity, but it did help trust it.

Next thing I knew, I was back at the salon, ripping out those expensive extensions, cutting off a decent length of hair and shaving one half of my head. A sensation flooded my body when those clippers reached my scalp. The freedom to be. It was suddenly easier to stop pretending. 

Strengthening my core

This story doesn't have a simple, happy ending. It doesn’t have an ending at all, because it is ongoing—living itself out, in and through me, each day. My gender identity continues to fluctuate. My body has some scars I will never be rid of, my hormone levels plateaued, and the natural testosterone fueling my growing muscles enlivens me. I will do my best to keep strengthening my core, though the scar on my abdomen will remain.

I got my hysterectomy for the purpose of medical care and pain relief, but it has also finally allowed me to live my life the way I want to live it. No more presenting myself a certain way to please others. If I want to look, dress, or act differently based upon how I’m feeling, I take a shot of gender fluid, and go for it.

Read more about constantly-evolving expression, and our guide to discovering your gender identity. Wherever you are in your journey, we’re waiting for you on Feeld.