The Sting of “Sir”

The sting of being misgendered is real.

I play it off. I’ve gotten good at that. In fact, I’ve convinced people close to me that it doesn’t bother me. Because you have to choose your fucking battles.

But goddamn it … it gets old.

I’m in Columbus, Ohio right now, at Batelle headquarters for leadership training.

First time I’ve ever been sent to one of these. And that’s its own story.

These programs are usually a signal: we see you, we take your leadership seriously, we’re investing in you. So naturally, I was overlooked for years.

Instead, I learned leadership the old-fashioned way. Trial and fucking error. Leading teams, getting knocked down, clawing my way back after a coming-out-related demotion, rebuilding credibility piece by piece. Two decades of that. Then five more years as a team leader. A year at the group level.

And now? Now they want to invest.

A little late.

But I went anyway.

Not for the content. I already know most of that. But for the people. The networking. The conversations.

And honestly? That part has been great. I’ve met some incredible people. Had some real, meaningful interactions.

Last night, there was a group dinner. Optional. Pay your own way. Still worth it. A chance to connect with other leaders across the complex.

And that’s where it happened. The waitress misgendered me.

Not once. Repeatedly.

“Sir.” Over and over again.

And I don’t fucking get it.

I didn’t roll in looking like a mess. Yeah, I had jeans and a button-down, but my hair was done. I look like myself. I am myself. And yeah, my body isn’t exactly subtle. There are clues.

So what is it? Is it deliberate? Is it that quiet little jab: “I know what you really are”? Or is it something else? Because I honestly don’t know anymore.

And here’s the part people don’t see. I didn’t say anything. Not because it didn’t bother me. But because of where I was. I was sitting with other leaders. People I’m building relationships with. People who are getting to know me professionally. I didn’t want to become a moment. I didn’t want to be the trans person making a point. I just wanted to be seen as a competent, credible leader.

So I ignored it. Sat there while she called out “sir” into the air, and pretended, just for a second, that it wasn’t directed at me. Even though it obviously was.

And yeah… it pissed me off. More than I let on.

Because it’s not just that moment. It’s the accumulation. The constant, low-level reminders that no matter how far you’ve come, no matter how much you’ve built, no matter how clearly you show up in the world… Someone, somewhere, is going to reduce you to that.

People like to say this is a “choice.” Like I woke up one day and thought, you know what would be fun? Let’s make life harder.

No. This was survival. This was choosing to live instead of disappear.

And all I really want… is to exist. To just be. Without the constant undercurrent of correction, assumption, or subtle insult.

Because even when it’s subtle… It adds up.

And here’s the irony. If someone had treated her that way, dismissively, disrespectfully, I would have said something. I would have stepped in. I would have made it clear: we don’t treat people like that.

I still would. Even after last night.

I sometimes wonder… If she could see it all. The scars up and down the left side of my body. The remnants of road rash on my right hip. The defibrillator tucked under my ribs. The piece of my arm that’s simply… gone beneath the tattoos. The foot that never quite healed right. The scar across my lip, the way it pulls just slightly when I speak.

If she could see the full map of what I’ve survived…

Would she still say “sir”?

Or would she pause, just for a second, and realize there’s a human being sitting in front of her who has fought like hell to still be here?

That’s the part I keep coming back to.

Not anger.

Not even frustration.

Just this quiet question: Why is it so hard for people to just… let others be?