Photo by Hillary Olson

The moment is burned into my memory. It was Easter morning. I had worked a very early shift at the restaurant and come home for a little bit before heading out for Easter dinner. I had just showered and was planning on taking a nap, but I wanted to spend some time with my then-partner. I was in bed wearing just my boxers. I still didnâ€™t spend all that much time shirtless, still getting used to my new, correct body and chest. I called her over and it was at that moment that she decided to tell me that she was no longer attracted to me. That she hadnâ€™t been for some time. I immediately felt the urge to cover up. To put on a shirt, to pull the blankets up to my chin. To hide my body. The body that was clearly unattractive, undesirable, unworthy. â€¨â€¨One of my biggest fears when I was considering if transitioning was what I needed to do was that no one would ever find me attractive. I knew there was a chance that the transition would make my then-partner not want to be with my anymore and I worried that I would never be enough for anyone else. That my transition would somehow wreck me. Because I knew that no straight woman would ever be attracted to or want to date a transgender man. I mean, how could they? I was missing the most important part. I had scars. I was less than. And no lesbian would want to date me because I was a man. Or they would be willing to date me because â€œI wasnâ€™t really a man, I mean, not really, you know. Youâ€™re a man but a different kind of man so that makes it okay.â€ Why did I think this? Because everywhere I turned people were telling me it was true. Queer friends who considered themselves trans allies said these things. Media and the church told me that I was just fooling myself, that I was delusional, that I was worthy of ridicule and scorn.

I was already dealing with my own sense of shame about my body. My own dysphoria over what I wanted to be but couldnâ€™t. My own fears of being undesirable and everywhere I turned, including to the person who I thought loved me, those fears were loudly reinforced. So I shrank into myself. I hid my body away. I hid my new body away, a body that I was more proud of than I had ever been before. But I still felt like it wasnâ€™t good enough.

It has taken me years to even unpack all of this. I am still unpacking all of it. But Iâ€™ve had some experiences recently that have been scary and healing and empowering and vulnerable.

Dating someone who is attracted to me has been an amazing revelation. Dating someone who loves my body. Who doesnâ€™t see me as less than or missing something or a consolation prize. I know we need to love ourselves and our self worth canâ€™t depend on another person, but when you live in a world that so routinely and loudly denounces your body as ugly and gross and unworthy it sure helps to have some outside validation.

Writing about transgender lives and bodies and the importance of allowing transgender people to embody their own stories has also been helpful. In a sense I have been writing my way into believing my own worth. Before I was writing about it because it mattered (and it does matter) but I wasnâ€™t allowing that message of mattering to sink in to the marrow of my own bones. But the more I write about it, the more I talk about it, the more I see marginalized bodies on stage embodying their own stories the more I believe in it, even for myself.

Writing and acting in this current show Sex In The Dark has been another piece of the puzzle. While this story isnâ€™t my story (not in the same way the last two shows were) it is my anxieties and fears. It is my grappling with my own feelings of inadequacy, shame, and fear of intimacy. Putting those words on the page and then saying them out loud has made me realize how much shame I have carried for so long; shame that was forced on me by other people. Shame that has been inflicted on me.

The other day Ashley and I did a photo shoot with an art photographer for the new show. The tagline of the show is â€œYour Skin Is A Story Of Resistanceâ€ and we wanted to take photos that would emphasize that theme. That would tell a story of skin claiming our beauty. The photographer works a lot with nude models and skin. We spent a lot of time talking about our own comfort levels. I said that I would be okay being photographed shirtless and wearing boxer briefs. But as the day approached I was feeling nervous about it. I still have not been shirtless outside of my home and was feeling anxious about it. I knew I would be around safe people but still. Itâ€™s an act of risk, of vulnerability to take off your clothing. To allow yourself to be photographed.

We were there for a little over two hours and through it all I was comfortable (which is a testament to the photographer and the people in the room) but after we were done the reality of it began to set in. Not only had we been photographed wearing very little clothing, but we had also put our intimacy on display. That is intensely vulnerable. â€¨â€¨I started to think through why I was feeling the way I was. What was I worried about? Thereâ€™s the simple stuff: itâ€™s vulnerable to put photos like that out there. I wonder what my friends will think. What will old acquaintances and random Facebook friends think. That stuff is there but when I get past it that doesnâ€™t matter all that much. Iâ€™m an adult, this is art. Weâ€™ll be okay.

Then I started to think about all of the messages Iâ€™ve received about my body and about queer sexuality over the years: That it is shameful and sick. That I am disordered and perverted. That I am a sex fiend. That I care more about sex than about love. That my body is shameful. That my body is disgusting. That my body is less than. That my sexuality is scandalous. Hereâ€™s the thing: none of these messages even had to be said directly to or about me for me to internalize them and take them on. And internalize them I have. â€¨â€¨Itâ€™s funny because weâ€™re doing this show called Sex In The Dark but itâ€™s pretty tame. We talk about sex but we donâ€™t show much. There isnâ€™t nudity other than some partially clothed getting ready scenes in the beginning. But the show itself is all about vulnerability and intimacy. And I found myself struggling with these photos we took because I didnâ€™t want people to think of me as a sexual being. I didnâ€™t want people to make judgements about me. I didnâ€™t want people to judge my body.

But at the same time, itâ€™s the invisibility and hiddenness of transgender (and fat and black and queer and and and) bodies that allow us to feel like we are less than. That we are undesirable. That we arenâ€™t worthy of love or affection or really good sex. Itâ€™s the shame that keeps us hidden away and that in turn continues to perpetuate shame. (Not that we are in any way responsible for the shame or the perpetuation of it. No. That is on a society and culture that would shame us and then force us to take the blame for our own shaming.)

Your skin is a story of resistance. My skin is a story of resistance. These photos are resistance. Putting myself out there in all of my skin bared intimate glory is resistance. Itâ€™s saying that my body and my sexuality are good and holy. Itâ€™s saying that I donâ€™t have to hide myself away. I donâ€™t have to cover up. My skin is worthy of being seen. My love is worthy of being seen. Itâ€™s saying that even though these photos might be met with a voyeuristic gaze that wants to look at trans and plus size people with judgement or curiosity that these photos arenâ€™t for those people. They are for me. They are for other trans men who feel invisible. They are for other former evangelicals who were made to feel like their bodies and sexuality are bad and sinful. They are for all of the people who have been told that they arenâ€™t desirable or attractive or worthy of touch and love. â€¨â€¨This is how we resist. We refuse to carry the shame any longer. We get angry about the messages that have been written on our bodies. We refuse to hide or to shrink ourselves. We refuse to cover up. We show our bodies and our scars and our love boldly. We learn to love the places that we have been told are unlovable. We embrace the parts that we still have trouble loving. We cut ourselves some slack as we continue to deal with our own worth and value. We are gentle with ourselves when we arenâ€™t quite there yet. We accept compliments. We accept love. We accept touch. We allow ourselves to feel good and to make others feel good. We take up space. We refuse to let people decide how we get to be in the world.

We resist. And we continue resisting. We love each other in our resisting.

We are good. We are holy. We are worthy. All of us.