The Word I Didn’t Know I Needed

I’ve changed my look a lot over the years. Usually for utilitarian reasons. At my core, though, I try to look nice. I stay clean. I try to be presentable. I try to be approachable. In professional settings, I usually try to look… well, professional.

I say usually because riding a motorcycle changes the rules. When I ride in, I’m wearing gear because I enjoy having skin. There’s no point doing my hair when it’s going to be plastered flat by a helmet after an hour. On riding days I bring work clothes and keep my hair tied back once the leather comes off. It’s functional. It’s fine.

This week, though, I’ve been using the truck instead. It’s cold as hell, and I didn’t feel like freezing my ass off on a bike. So I’ve had time to actually get ready in the mornings, do my hair, take a beat, present myself the way I might if practicality wasn’t always the first concern.

Today, during my PT appointment, my therapist looked at me and said, casually, kindly: “You’re pretty.”

She didn’t have to say that. I know she was being nice. But still, she said it. And it landed harder than I expected.

Nobody ever calls me that.

Being transgender is a tough walk on its own, even without everything else I’ve lived through. I don’t draw attention to my gender identity. I don’t want to be a political statement. I just want to live my life, treat people with respect, and leave something meaningful behind. If someone burns that bridge, I don’t waste time rebuilding it, but until then, I try to move through the world decently.

Still, since coming out, I’ve often felt like a spectacle. The person snickered at when they think I can’t hear. The punchline when HR isn’t in the room.

Or the opposite: the token trans person people want to claim familiarity with, just so they can say they “know one.” Known as a curiosity. Never for substance. Never for attraction.

So I built a shell. A thick one. And somewhere along the way, I gave up on the idea of romance altogether. Add that shell to the hard persona I’ve had to grow just to survive, and you get someone who rubs society the wrong way.

Not feminine enough to be desired. Not masculine enough to be feared or respected.

So I’ve occupied this cold, bitter middle space, moving unapologetically through the world, expecting nothing and asking for even less.

Which is why those words caught me off guard.

“You’re pretty.”

It made my eyes burn. Because that’s never how I’ve seen myself … especially now, with my mouth still misshapen from the accident. I don’t know what it means. Maybe I’ve been too hard on myself. Maybe it means nothing at all beyond the fact that kind people still exist.

Honestly, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I didn’t realize I needed to hear it. And when I did… it hit.