Thereâ€™s a comic strip I really love in which a trans woman travels back in time to talk to her younger self. It makes me cry every time. Hereâ€™s a page:
I occasionally daydream about doing the same for the younger, sadder, pre-transition me, but I know itâ€™s a waste of time. Not just because time travel isnâ€™t a thing, but because even if I could, young-me wouldnâ€™t believe a word I told her.
But I wish I could tell her about days like today. That one sunny day sheâ€™d be bouncing around her favourite part of her favourite city with a photographer in tow, laughing as he did the professional-photographer thing of constantly throwing out compliments and telling her she was beautiful, not feeling self-conscious or scared of othersâ€™ attention, feeling like a famous musician or a model or a movie star before going home to the beautiful, hilarious humans who make her feel like the most loved woman in the world.
But as Iâ€™ve said, young-me wouldnâ€™t believe me. And that makes me sad. Sad that she wonâ€™t know about such joy for such a long time, and sad that her shame and her fear wonâ€™t even let her imagine the possibility.
Iâ€™m thankful she stuck around long enough to finally get us here. Iâ€™m sorry it took me so long.