There’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. Here’s a page:

I occasionally daydream about doing the same for the younger, sadder, pre-transition me, but I know it’s a waste of time. Not just because time travel isn’t a thing, but because even if I could, young-me wouldn’t believe a word I told her.

But I wish I could tell her about days like today. That one sunny day she’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 others’ 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 I’ve said, young-me wouldn’t believe me. And that makes me sad. Sad that she won’t know about such joy for such a long time, and sad that her shame and her fear won’t even let her imagine the possibility.

I’m thankful she stuck around long enough to finally get us here. I’m sorry it took me so long.