On a Sunday last spring, after locking up the office at my old job, I turned into the hall and saw a little girl. She was eight or nine, and wore a hair band that glistened with purple sequins. The girl was alone – I could make out some adults through the frosted office windows behind her, but nobody was there with us in the hallway — and she was dancing. Wild, flail around, “Twist and Shout” dancing. It was incredible.



“That looks fun!” I said, smiling at her. Immediately she stopped dancing and looked over at me.

It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d really interacted with a child since I began my transition six months earlier. I felt an anxiety leap up in me — is she looking at me like that because I don’t make sense to her, because I’m weird, or — but then, somehow, she smiled.

“Do you have a little girl, too?” she asked.

I shook my head. When I got onto the elevator, I added, “But I want to be a mom someday.”

“Good!” she said, then started to dance again as the elevator doors closed.