Sam Dylan Finch.
"Landslide" is a transgender anthem and you’ll never convince me otherwise.
Testosterone Week 1: Can I Handle the Seasons of My Life? I Don’t Know.
Stevie Nicks must be trans.
It’s the only explanation I can think of. Because there is no other song on the face of the planet that has spoken to my experiences as transgender like "Landslide" has.
Stevie just gets it. Sometimes you have to let go of everything you know — what is known, what is comfortable, what is safe — to become who you’re meant to be. "Landslide" is a transgender anthem and you’ll never convince me otherwise.
This is a new season, to be sure. I start testosterone in two days, and while I am afraid, I am still sure of myself and my decision. Truthfully, I don’t know what my endpoint is and I’m still learning about the intricacies of my own gender. But, even still, I feel ready for what’s to come.
Have you ever lived somewhere and thought to yourself, “I’m not home yet”? That’s what my body has felt like the last 24 years of my life — a mere point in time; a temporary condition. Looking in the mirror was the equivalent of sleeping in a stranger’s bed. I felt like a visitor in my own body.
When I was a teenager I interpreted this as being “ugly,” though I couldn’t place exactly what felt so ugly to me or why I felt so restless. When I went to college, I grew uncomfortable calling myself a “woman.” And finally, with time, I grew to understand that the self-loathing I felt around my body was a struggle with my gender.
I was trans.
I didn’t see testosterone coming, though — not at first. I used to say that I could “never medically transition” — that I would never work up the courage to come out to my family, and I would never pursue something so permanent. I was afraid of what (or who) I might lose.
But I woke up one morning last May and suddenly knew, with absolute conviction, that it was time. I realized that not changing was as much of a permanent choice as testosterone would be. One guaranteed I would remain unhappy, while the other had the promise of fulfillment; one guaranteed I would lose what little of myself I had, while the other held the promise of meeting myself at last.
I spent years terrified of changing, building my entire life around this notion of womanhood. But now I realized that it was OK to let go of what I knew, to relinquish expectations and embrace that unknown. Even if I am unsure of the destination, I feel that direction in my bones.
Here’s what I know: I’m not home yet. Where home is, I don’t know.
But fear will not hold me back. After years of quiet aching, I know what I must do. Bolder now, I’m walking in the light of my truth.