I found something recently.
It's the glimmering of the kitchen top. Reflecting a routine of pride, one I haven't felt in some time.
It's the dishes and cups, cleaned and stored in their rightful homes.
It's the absence of empty boxes, packets and plastic containers.
It's the freshly baked scones that fill the air with a delightful aroma.
It's being able to discard old junk without an overpowering existential fear that you may need it one day.
It's a rested heart, listening to the ambient hums of your well-kept home.
It's not checking the locks 100 times, flicking off the light switch on and off and on and off, hoping the next click will turn off the senseless demands in your head.
It's not looking over your shoulder, fretting over every step, or bothering to scan every passer-by.
It's not feeling conscious when you eat, not caring if others are watching you as you destroy a tray of chips saturated in salt and vinegar.
It's the absence of destructive obsessions, ceasing the race to chase a goal that constantly shifts the closer you get to it.
It's not having to put on a voice or clothes that feel like they're choking you.
It's wearing baggy hoodies, several sizes too big or feeling a million bucks in an easy iron shirt.
It's the fresh clothes, neatly folded and organised by type and style.
It's noticing new tones and shades in my wardrobe. Whites, yellows, and enough colour they have their own dedicated days for the washing machine.
It's driving calmly, not rushing to get anywhere or annoying other drivers with my impatience.
It's taking your time, no matter what it is. Not running away from the hard stuff, but not succumbing to it either.
It's not worrying about the reflection in the mirror or how you really look in a proper photo.
It's the calm purring cat next to you, and the other not too far away, sitting like a cinnamon roll, sweet as can be.
It's flirting with guys, and going on dates, minus the secrecy.
It's loving the man I am, and well...lots of other men too.
“Meet somewhere public and tell someone where and when you’re going." A concerned voice raises.
"I know you’re an adult, but you’re still my son." I'm struck. Not by the instruction or concern, worry, but the joy in the words. How natural it seemed to say, rolling off the tongue, effortless and simple. Yet joyful none the less.
"My son." It's bittersweet though, not all glimmering like the kitchen top or bright like my new clothes. It's a reflection of the gaping chasm that was left behind when I left myself.
It's understanding what you did to those that love you the most. It's taking ownership, but without carrying a cross to die on.
It's noticing the lack of restrictions and monitoring of words of others.
It's the defence stance, stood down, the worry left in reserve.
It's the freedom to talk openly, maturely and to acknowledge the mistakes, but without attaching a life sentence to it.
It's being able to listen, and learn, without taking it personally.
It's reconnecting with old friends, the ones you left behind but they always held their door open.
And their parents too, who knew you since you were eight, like a second family, never forgotten. In fact, they’re quite happy to see you too.
It’s realising, people did miss you. And they’re glad to have you back.
It's overpowering the hurt and pain, self-inflicted or otherwise with perspective. Sure, it's not ideal, but it's doable.
It's feeling strong enough to help others remember their own strengths.
It's the fierceness in your resolve of what you believe to be right.
It’s knowing that life is far from over.
It's growing up, even if it takes until your mid-thirties.
It’s feeling proud, but not too much. You don’t want to get too big headed now.
But it is joy and it may not seem like much to you, but it’s mine.
Thank you for reading!
I’ve also started a new series of Just-Chatting, where I talk with others who have went through medical transition and are now recovering. The full playlist is available here.
That is just the loveliest, most heart-warming thing I've read in ages. Congratulations on all the work you've put in to yourself.
Beautiful to read on Thanksgiving Day, which tends to be a difficult day for me. Thank you!