When I wrote about visibility back in March, I still had a chest I wanted gone, a mother who was alive, and a body that hadn’t yet met testosterone. I still had some illusions that  visibility was the hardest part, just telling the truth out loud.

I was wrong. Becoming visibile is easy compared to staying visible when the world keeps daring you to disappear.

My mother died in April. In May, I had top surgery. In June, I started testosterone. Every month since has been an act of rebirth and rebellion.

I have watched the mirror become kinder, my voice drop lower, as the news grows darker.

It is a strange thing to feel more like myself while my government tries to criminalize that self.

Coming out now is not a gentle unveiling. It is armor. It is breath held and released in defiance. Each dose of testosterone is both medicine and manifesto: I exist. I exist. I exist.

When I first wrote that I was trans nonbinary, I still believed in the safety of nuance. But this year stripped me of any illusion of nuance. I am a trans man.

I changed my name in September and my birth gender.

Sorry, Jason, I’m the first born son.

My name is still Marty. As my parents often reminded me throughout my life, I was nicknamed “Marty” when I was 9 hours old. Now that is official.

I took my new middle name from the same line as the former one came from. I remain named after my mother’s mother’s line.

I am still autistic, still disabled, still queer, but I am done apologizing for how many times it has taken me to arrive here.

Gender for me has never been a destination. It is a pilgrimage through loss, honesty, and stubborn hope.

I do not write this for sympathy or applause. I write it for the ones still whispering their truths in locked bedrooms. For the ones who cannot change their markers or risk the light.

I see you.

If I have to be visible in this violent season, I will use that visibility as a shield, a flare, a warning: we are still here. We have always been here, we are never leaving.

My pronouns