Public Spaces : Flight or Slay
I remember the version of me who would tremble before stepping out the door in a skirt. I’d sit in the car trying to talk myself into going inside. I’d hide in bathrooms and cry, then wipe my face and try again after reapplying makeup for the 30th time. Any laugh nearby felt like it had my name on it. Any glance felt like a judgment. It was the kind of attention that makes you feel small, not seen. And here’s the wild part: I wanted to blend in… but I was also wearing bold makeup, bright eyeshadow, rainbow outfits—like I was lit up on purpose. Looking back, maybe I was. Maybe I was trying to force the world to notice me in a way that felt safe. Maybe I was just desperate for validation, because I truly needed it. Over time, I started making different choices. Not “better” in some moral way—just choices that actually fit me. I got more comfortable in my everyday clothes. I softened my look. I stopped performing and started existing. Somewhere in that shift, I found peace. Now, if someone wants to be weird about the fact that I was AMAB, that’s their problem to carry. I don’t chase their approval anymore. I focus on the people who smile, who treat me normally, who make space for me as a person. The negativity doesn’t get to rent a room in my head. It’s a small, steady kind of power—self-worth. Confidence. A quiet “I belong here.” And it’s been one of the sweetest things about becoming myself.