When do I get to retire from this?

(Probably never.)

I’ve been thinking lately about when it will be time for me to move on from public detransition advocacy. And I’m qualifying my advocacy with the word “public” because, honestly, this is something I will carry for the rest of my life.

When we “win” the sex/gender war — whatever that looks like — many of us will be able to move on from this moment in time without looking back. Meanwhile, I will be constantly reminded of it — whenever I hear my own voice; whenever I see my body in the mirror; whenever I am intimate with someone; whenever I think about pregnancy… you get the idea.

I imagine that, like other forms of grief, this is something that hurts less and less over time. But it will never stop being something that I have to explain to someone else at some point.

That bit — where you have to explain forever — is true for literally anyone who chooses medical intervention with regard to transition. I think, when I was younger, I didn’t fully grasp that concept. Like many other aspects of identifying as transgender, there was a conflation with being gay (e.g., gay people have to “come out” repeatedly to people for their entire lives), so those were the terms by which I understood it. Of course, I was under the impression that I would “pass” as a man for the rest of my life and that I would be able to choose who to divulge that information to.

I never imagined struggling with “passing” as my own sex. I worry about my voice being too deep. I worry about my chest being flat. I worry that my facial stubble might be visible. And I also think I’m being ridiculous sometimes, because “passing” now isn’t what it was when I identified as trans. When I was trans, the fear was that I would be discovered to be female and that my identity would feel invalidated. By contrast, today I know I’m female, and all of the body modifications or false perceptions in the world would never change it.

At any rate, I didn’t expect having to think about “coming out” in the sense of being a detransitioner. Way back in 2010, when I first announced that I was transitioning, I was afraid of telling people and just wanted to live stealth and have no one question me. So few people knew about “trans” back then. And today, in 2022, “trans” is the political fight du jour. Almost everyone knows what it means. And here I am… detransitioning. And once again, I am afraid of telling people, just wanting to live stealth, and having no one question me.

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I think about leaving advocacy frequently — a few times a week — and with my mind turning to it so often, I know that means that staying is probably not good for my mental health.

I joined Twitter in May of last year and started this blog in July. I don’t remember the atmosphere being as hostile back then as it feels now. It almost feels like, with every step forward we take, the more everyone criticizes each other about what should happen next, what strategy we should take, what words we should or shouldn’t use, and who should or shouldn’t be involved. And honestly? It feels too much like the activism that I left. Dog-piling, mocking of appearances, “exposing” people for being “bigots,” false accusations, emotionally-loaded language for things that could be described neutrally…

It all comes back to this idea that, if you can control specific individual people — if you can make them see your point of view and act the way you think is best — then you can make systemic changes. And if they don’t agree with you, well, then they’re responsible for institutional harm.

This is the crux of cancel culture — you solve “bigotry” by getting rid of the “bad” people. But even people who claim that they’re “against” cancel culture will engage in this behaviour… they just think they’re the exception to the rule.

I could go on and on about how we should act and how we could all just get along if we just did A, B, and C, but it would be pointless. I don’t have a high enough status to influence such decisions, and I already have a bunch of people who have decided I’m an awful person.

I think it takes a lot out of someone to be vulnerable in front of thousands of people. And to be fair, I have gotten a lot of compassion. But I’ve also gotten shit from that same crowd. I’ve had people quote tweet me with red flag emojis when I called out bad behaviour. I’ve had people tell me I deserve nothing when I spoke on the potential for compensation. I’ve had people call me a “useful idiot.” I’ve had to deal with bodies like mine being referred to as “unattractive” at best and “mutilated” or “deformed” at worst.

And I mean, that’s not even that bad. But it’s hard because, if I put the phone down, I still can’t get away from it. It’s the big fad on television right now to include trans characters, so I can’t avoid it there either. I can’t be open with most of the friends I’ve made over the past ten years about how I’m feeling or I risk being ex-communicated. I can’t just go on vacation and forget about gender ideology, because I still live in this body.

Imagine being in an abusive relationship, but when you finally get the courage to leave, everyone tells you that it wasn’t actually abusive and that you’re a horrible person for talking about it.

Imagine leaving a cult, but everyone else denies that it’s really a cult. And sure, it’s okay that you left if it wasn’t for you, but your opinion will only be taken seriously if you don’t say anything that would make the remaining cult members feel bad.

Imagine you’re watching someone with an eating disorder post pictures about the weight they’ve lost while people cheer them on, and anyone who expresses concern about them is shouted down as either a “troll” or “hateful.”

That’s why I haven’t left advocacy yet; it’s nice to feel like there are people out there who haven’t drank the Kool Aid. But really, there’s only so much bullying (and gaslighting about what “bullying” is) that I can take before I just retire from all forms of activism altogether.

But maybe I’ll start by only retiring from Twitter.

(Then again… maybe not.)