Those are just the first episodes; I’m not even mentioning the robot-obsessed Princess Entrapta, or the episode where Adora’s star-crossed lover/archenemy Catra, a literal catgirl, dons a maroon tuxedo to sneak in (and ruin) the traditional Princess Prom. She-Ra is, apart perhaps from Steven Universe, the preeminent Very Gay Cartoon of its time, but it’s not just its palpable queerness that makes the show so beloved to me — it’s Adora herself, a girl who, when forced to confront the terrible injustices she’s helped perpetrate (however unknowingly), chooses the difficult path of atonement and restorative justice. She-Ra isn’t a hero because of her powers, she’s a hero because she makes the decision to abandon the only family she’s ever known and fight against their ruthless agenda. She is, to put it bluntly, my girl.

But as much as I would have loved to cosplay She-Ra in literally any situation, being invited to by my girlfriend’s family meant the absolute world. Last year, preparing to fly out to Indianapolis for the first time, I was gripped with anxiety over whether her siblings and parents would accept me into the fold — fears that only get more pronounced when your relationship is polyamorous. I worried that since my girlfriend is already married, our relationship wouldn’t even be legible to the rest of the clan. To my great relief, I was welcomed with warmth, engagement, and some of the strongest cocktails I’ve ever had in my life (her father is of the opinion that any good margarita should consist of at least 50 percent tequila).

Yes, my winged tiara flopped comically to one side; yes, my tunic cradled my paunch in a somewhat un-superheroic manner. But when everything came together and I got to look at myself in a mirror, I couldn’t help but smile. I wasn’t just playing a part — I was the girl who would fight for the honor of motherfucking Greyskull.

Scrambling at the last minute, I managed to get a pass through a friend with the agreement that I’d help run the door for her Saturday night nerdlesque show. (Her husband, also in our cosplay group, was to perform a Waluigi striptease, an experience I can only describe as transcendent.) Saturday is also the day of Gen Con’s annual cosplay parade, in which costumed congoers line up and march around the convention floor and outside the Indianapolis Convention Center. I set to work alongside my girlfriend and her sister, portraying Catra and the underwater princess Mermista, respectively, as we all strategized on our costumes. On Friday we stayed up long into the small hours of the night sewing, slicing foam, and slathering hot glue on everything that would hold still — until finally, at last, our costumes were complete.

I’m not sure how I managed to drag myself out of bed on Saturday morning, but keeping my body moving was surprisingly easy; I had the power of She-Ra on my side, after all. As I donned each part of my outfit (and fixed the errors I’d accidentally made while bleary-eyed the night before), my excitement and energy grew. Yes, my winged tiara flopped comically to one side; yes, my tunic cradled my paunch in a somewhat un-superheroic manner. But when everything came together and I got to look at myself in a mirror, I couldn’t help but smile. I wasn’t just playing a part — I was the girl who would fight for the honor of motherfucking Greyskull.

It didn’t take long for that strength to be tested. Only a few minutes after we entered the convention center and posted up in the dedicated cosplay area in advance of the parade, a shy little girl approached me, her dad trailing close behind. Her eyes were wide, and her long blonde hair was tied in a tight braid. Hesitantly, in the way of children, she asked to take a picture. My heart melted. “Of course,” I blurted out eagerly, and knelt down. She stood beside me, and as I placed my hand on her shoulder and looked up, I saw her father’s phone case and its slogan: “Make America Great Again.”

I’ve never had a deer-in-headlights moment quite like that one. Fear tugged at my heart, and anger, too. I felt protective of this child I didn’t even know, apprehensive of the hate she’d already undoubtedly been exposed to. But I was frozen. Could this man know I was trans? Was his sour, flat look because he didn’t want to be there, or because a God damned transsexual was touching his kid?

I didn’t know what to do. So I let She-Ra take over. We squared our shoulders and smirked in the face of hate.