I Don't Know What to Title This, But I am Not Okay

Something a little personal

I am starting this post without a thesis or clear purpose besides being honest about how hard this all can be and is, and what it’s been like for me to exist under Trump’s second administration.

Since I was a young adult, one way I have navigated the trials in my life is to try to find something useful in my experience for other people. I blogged through the early stages of my gender transition. I, with supervision, have channeled the emotion of some of the more challenging periods of my life into greater resonance and empathy and presence in my clinical work. I’ve developed research questions and subsequent studies from harmful things I’ve witnessed or experienced. Et cetera, et cetera. So it does not surprise me that my response to increasing political attacks and hostile societal contexts against trans people is to move into helping mode. It feels good to be useful to my communities and others during this time, and it adds meaning to my own efforts at survival and thriving.

And I’m not okay. I mean: I am okay, and also I’m not okay. I’m scared. And also - I’m fearless and feel so capable. I’m stressed and I’m at ease. Sometimes at the same damn time, and sometimes it feels more dynamic or chaotic like a rollercoaster. Consistently, I am tired. I am also resting and resilient, and find myself wanting to reassure you readers and loved ones that I really am okay. And also: I’m not okay.

Yesterday, I was sitting in a sauna set to 148 degrees, listening to TRANSA - specifically Song to the Siren by Rachika Nayar, Julianna Barwick, and Cassandra Croft.

And I had the immense, overcoming feeling of not being scared anymore. I will be doing an endurance cycling event in March and I have been nervous about whether my body is capable of it. The first image that took hold in my mind as I felt that sense of fearlessness was me on my bike on the dirt roads of Oklahoma - fully capable, fully alive. And then transposed upon that was a profound sense that as trans people, we would fight and survive and thrive. I had this nebulous vision of a huge gathering of trans people, so big I couldn’t see everyone, and we were all blurring together, and we were strong, and we were alive. I felt at peace the rest of the evening. Drifted to sleep easily.

And then I had a night full of nightmares and stress dreams - no clear shape or theme besides danger and fear. I woke up with a visceral feeling of unease that has largely persisted. And extreme weariness.

Earlier the day of the sauna or perhaps the day before, I had said out loud to my partner perhaps for the first time: “I’m scared.” In my fear - sparked by learning of the retractions of publications and funding that included any word that acknowledged transness - I had realized that I wanted the trans people who could lead meaningful lives elsewhere to leave the country. I felt the need for people to get out. (I stand by this, and also I am not leaving for many reasons, and believe we can be okay here.) We live under a government that is undeniably hostile to our existence. That is scary and I have felt nebulously unsafe. But it was a huge relief, in that sauna-TRANSA-trance to not feel scared. To see the threat and feel fully capable of rising to it.

Today I reflected to my therapist that part of what is feeling exhausting is knowing that those periods of feeling capable and powerful don’t last. That even as I felt so purely and fully fearless, clearly my subconscious still harbored the fuel of nightmares. I believe everything I write in here about radical hope and about community and joy. And I feel good a lot. And also I know that underneath that or alongside it still lurks the terror and the hurt, and we’re living in an era where that’s not changing. Toward the end of session, my therapist noted that if this is true (which it probably is), it’s also true that when I’m feeling overwhelmed with fear or sadness, the fearlessness and capable and at peace feelings are also still there - doing whatever the benevolent version of “lurking” is.

The fear I feel is not more true than the fearlessness I feel. They are both dimensions of my experience. I am at peace and I am deeply troubled. I am calm and feel ready and I’m overwhelmed and feel unprepared. I feel hopeful and I feel hopeless. I am a human in a deeply difficult set of circumstances. And so too are you, whomever you are reading this.

Fitting within the pattern I explained at the opening of this post, I wanted to share this with whomever reads my work. I want to be honest about the fact that just because I’ve generally figured out some decently effective strategies for navigating difficult circumstances and can do good work as a therapist and an educator doesn’t mean that I am okay. I do not expect myself to be okay and I do not expect any of you to be okay. Asher Pandjiris and Onyx Fujii of Kintsugi Therapist Collective¹ wrote a “manifesto for mental healthcare workers who can’t go on like this” titled We Need Not Be Fine, about the importance of not denying our own brokenness when we show up to care for others. I have found this incredibly important in my work as a therapist, and I want to include that in my approach as an educator and advocate, too. I am not going to pretend that any of this is easy or un-messy. When I show up and am feeling empowered and confident in this work, I’m carrying with me the pieces that feel disempowered and uncertain, too, even if I’ve managed to soothe and quiet them or not always believe what they’re telling me. And it is my hope that by working to publicly give myself permission to contain all of this, it might remind you to give yourself that permission, too.

1. Kintsugi Therapist Collective is a community for care workers dedicated to building embodied and liberatory practices of care. https://www.kintsugitherapistcollective.com/