My egg came pre-cracked. I’ve always had a mind-body disconnect, preferred Polly Pocket to Hot Wheels, and had an eye for women’s fashion. When puberty hit, I knew it was the wrong one and hated every second of it. But this was before I knew the word transgender, before it was recognized as a treatable medical condition. And I allowed myself to be told by my church that this was a bad thing and in no way should I ever come out, and I should live the American Dream instead.

The thing that caused me to actually make a move, though, was crippling dysphoria. The crushing weight of it, built up over decades and with no release valve, made me come out to my wife, who was way more supportive than I expected, and slowly I’m getting to express femininity. Coming out this weekend to my family, the future never looked so bright.