I tried to detransition. It didn’t work.

On November 24th, 2023, I posted a poem on Instagram that read, “How I wish my desire to be loved was less than my desire to be myself.” 

I am a twenty-four-year-old transgender person of color residing in the heart of Silicon Valley, California. My state offers relatively more accessible gender-affirming care than other parts of the US, but despite living in a progressive bubble, I have a suicide attempt in my history. This decision unfolded after nearly two decades of suppressing my true self.

Since I was a child, I felt like something was off, but never had the words or awareness to articulate it. I was disgusted with the feminine parts of my body but ended up attributing those feelings to the common discomforts that come along with puberty. “Everyone goes through this. You’re not the only one,” I told myself countless times after adjusting a bra strap or tossing out blood-soaked underwear. 

I am originally from Dallas, Texas. My family moved to the West Coast during my junior year of high school. During this time, I was in the midst of grappling with gender dysphoria and other mental health issues. I felt myself becoming more distressed and trapped with each passing day before I finally did the unthinkable — I came out to my friends and family as a transgender male. Most of my family did not accept me.

I have always had trouble seeking acceptance and approval from my parents, so my announcement only added to the storm of tension between us, specifically with my conservative father. Concerned and invasive lectures from him about my gender identity became a regular conflict I tried to avoid.

Such ordeals prolonged the decisions I needed to make to follow through on the next steps of my transition process. I stopped taking testosterone last year and almost canceled my top surgery date. Whenever I think about reaching for my true self, I vividly remember an evening when my dad picked me up from work. He told me that he was so glad I was not going to take “those injections” anymore and that my decision to present as female again relieved half of his stress. We reached a streetlight, and my dad continued to exhale his relief while I held my breath and looked out the passenger side window. That’s when I saw a father teaching his son how to ride a bike on the sidewalk parallel to our car. My eyes blinked right before the light turned green, and we began accelerating forward. I lost sight of the father, his son, and the bike, but I kept looking out the window, my heart heavy in my chest.

Despite having such painful moments filed away in my memory, the top surgery that I almost didn’t show up for was an indescribably healing experience. I had finally let go of something that uninvitedly occupied a tremendous amount of space in my mind, on my body, and during my day-to-day interactions with the world.

Unfortunately, the exhilaration I felt after my operation didn’t carry over to all aspects of my life. Men who I started pursuing relationships with ghosted me once they found out that I didn’t have breasts. As a swim instructor, I became tongue-tied when trying to politely evade the innocent “Are you a boy or a girl?” question from my younger students. Shame quickly clouded the joy I felt when I saw my chest in the mirror for the first time post-surgery.

The longer I stood at this fork in the road, the faster I lost the strength I barely had to search for who I truly am. Suicidal urges began returning in waves, and I regressed to spending nights staring at my bedroom ceiling, crying.

Questioning one’s gender is hard. Struggling with family rejection is hard. I may never discover my authentic identity, whatever that may be, but last month, when lying on my bed at night and staring at the ceiling, I didn’t hold back tears. Instead, I closed my eyes and asked the universe for the strength to stand up and try again. Hope rose in my chest the next day as the sun gradually floated above the morning fog. I scheduled an appointment with my gender-affirming doctor to start the process of retaking testosterone. I haven’t made any effort to have a conversation with my parents about this because I already have their answer.

For the longest time, my parents told me that if I am willing to change, their doors are open, and their lights are on.

I looked them in the eye and said, “So are mine.”