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Despite the fact that 2016 was terrifying and disappointing in so many ways, I will forever remember it as the year I was most honest with myself and most brave in my self exploration. That’s because last year, I finally came out to the world (and to myself) as a trans man.

I came out to my mom in a passing conversation as we drove in the car together to pick up some ice cream from the health food store. Though the conversation was had at a place and time that made the situation seem overly casual, I felt anything but casual about the situation. In fact, I had been nervously holding this news in for months, trying to find exactly the right words and moment in which to break it to her. I was sweating and felt a bit nauseous when I said to her, my voice shaking, “I think I’m a man.”

That year, I had already come out to my mom about being gender nonconforming, a concept she seemed to easily digest in a supportive and loving manner. But I felt nervous about what she thought about transitioning since she had seemed relieved at my negative answer six months back when she asked if I wanted surgery. My mind had changed drastically since then.

There was a long silence as we sat in my mom’s car, which was now parked in front of the store we were going to. “Ok,” she said. “I’m just confused because if you hate men and aren’t attracted to them, why would you want to be a man?”

I corrected my mom, “I don’t like cis men.” But the rest of her question got me thinking. Did I want to be a man physically? Did I want to inhabit a body that looks like the men who have attacked me? I’ve asked myself these questions many times in the past, but I quickly corrected that thinking. “I can’t help who I am, Mom,” I told her. “I’m just born a man. And yes, I’ve had negative experiences with men. But I don’t believe in most ideas surrounding masculinity and hypermasculinity. I’m always going to be me, just more comfortable.”

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My mom had more challenging questions, like “are you sure you don’t want to medically transition just so you can remove the area of your body that was traumatized by your abuser?” I’m still trying to find the answer to that one.

Realizing who I am has been a journey I’ve been embarking on since childhood — since I started rejecting dresses and girly affectations at age four, noticed my vagina as something that didn’t belong to me at age eight, and started embracing a sort of punk “tomboy” persona at age 11. It took me to a buzzcut and my first strap on, the object that helped me truly realize that, although I want my vagina gone, it’s always felt as though something was missing as well. It brought me here, this unsure place where I’m a trans man, an assault survivor, and I’m still figuring out what my new name will be, if I’ll medically transition and when I’ll change my pronouns.

Of course, the results of the election definitely complicated things for my identity. I felt trapped and depressed at the thought of not being able to transition or change my gender marker after the inauguration. Honestly, I felt like going back into the closet (and sometimes, I still feel this way). But I didn’t. I held my head high and continued to talk and write about it. My presentation is becoming more masculine every day, in spite of every person that has attempted to threaten my existence. Though I often struggle to navigate public spaces as a trans man (feminist and not), my body confidence and my belief in the validity of my identity has never been stronger.

I’m glad that I’m not hiding my identity to myself or the world anymore. There are lots of people and things to be afraid of, especially in our current political climate. But my identity and my body are no longer on that list for me.

People may think I’m strange, misunderstand me, or not even see me as a man. But regardless, I am a man and I’m not afraid of that fact anymore.