This post was originally published on my Substack blog on November 6, 2023.

This morning, Doc Impossible posted an article in Stained Glass Woman that focused on the concept of othering, and how it results in a social hierarchy. “Auto-othering” is a concept I’m very familiar with because I’ve spent my entire life feeling like I was on the outside of society, looking in. 

In my youth, I felt like an outsider for several reasons. I’ve always had a very analytical mind, which I didn’t see reflected in my peers. I’ve been playing the piano since I was five years old, and in high school started playing multiple instruments in the band, so I was always different because of my musical ability. Less noticeable to me at the time was the fact that I had little interest in being friends with other boys, and only wanted to be friends with girls, but that was a whole other confusing situation. 

I reacted by performing. I played the piano at recitals. I acted in school plays. I sang in choirs, and played solos in the jazz band. If I was different, I wanted others to like my differences. It worked, after a fashion. But having my differences appreciated didn’t make me one of the group. I was still “the other.”

In university, my first degree focused on music. When I started, I thought I had finally found my community, people who were like me. But even there, I quickly realized I was different. I wasn’t eccentric, like many of my fellow music students. Eccentricity was akin to conformity in that crowd. I was just different. I was still on the outside looking in. 

Once again, I performed. I continued playing in bands and singing in choirs. I sang tenor, which was a way to stand out in a two hundred voice university/community choir. Tenors are always in demand. Few male voices are suited to reaching the high notes and performing the tonal acrobatics that sadistic composers require of them, so in a choir with about fifty sopranos, forty basses, and about sixty altos, we had seven tenors. I developed my voice to the point where I can speak to almost any size group in almost any environment without a microphone. 

Throughout my life, I’ve been accepted, even welcomed, for my differences. But I’ve still been “the other.” It was the most difficult when I tried to be a “family man.” Not fitting in with your own family is a terrible feeling. There’s a lot to unpack from those years that won’t fit in this essay. 

Finally, this past summer, I discovered who I am, and one of the reasons I’ve always felt so different. I’ve gotten to know other trans women, both online and in my local area. I’ve found a wonderful sense of community in my local kink community. I feel more accepted now than at any previous time. But I still feel like “the other.”

Zoe’s latest article is part of a series that is bringing up strong emotions for a lot of readers as they remember past traumas that relate to their dysphoria. Some people find these articles difficult to read. But I don’t feel that. So far, my transition has been the calmest, most peaceful time I’ve ever experienced. I’ve found people who love me for who I really am, not who I’m trying to be. Every time I anxiously walk into a new store to buy makeup or find another transition-related service, I find welcoming staff who enthusiastically affirm who I am. 

I don’t resent my old self. I love my whole self, including the masculine “skills” I’ve learned over the years. I often joke that I still don’t have boobs, despite being on HRT for almost two weeks, but honestly I’m enjoying the gradual process of self-actualization. When friends apologize for misgendering me, I laugh and reassure them that I expect that’s going to happen for quite a while yet. Any trauma I felt in my “old life” has evaporated. 

Part of me feels like I should be looking for remnants of old trauma, anything I might need to process. But it feels like the week that I spent realizing my identity was my version of therapy. As a lifelong “other,” I’ve always been self-reliant. I consult others frequently, but I guide myself down the path that will resolve any issues I have. I make my own decisions, and I own the consequences. 

I admit that my version of “the other” is highly privileged. I benefited from my identity as a white male, and I continue to benefit from that when I wear neutral clothes and no makeup, even if my mannerisms are as girly as it gets. Even when I present more feminine, I feel like I’m benefiting from who I am. 

I feel more connected with the world than I ever have, but I’m still one step removed. It’s a little lonely, but I guess it’s not so bad. I focus on my friends, and find meaning in the time I spend with them. If my differences help me make a positive difference in the world, it’s worth feeling like I’m not quite part of it.