My Own Euphoria Ebony Miranda Contributor to The Edit The first time I saw my chest completely flat felt like a dream. Some of my emotions may have been caused by the anesthesia lingering in my bloodstream, but I had also been waiting for this day for months, years even. All I could feel was relief as tears streamed down my face. For the first time in my life, I felt at home in my body. I was always quite masculine as a child, often called a tomboy. I didn’t think about my gender too much. (Who does?!) I just knew that I had the same interests and hobbies as boys growing up, compared with what was expected from girls. I knew that I liked wearing boys’ clothes more than the average girl, too. But as soon as I started puberty, that would all change. I had no control over my developing body, but I didn’t let that stop me from trying to appear as masculine as I could. I would buy most of my clothes from the boys’ section, and I started wearing boxers too, making sure they were visible to signify that I maybe wasn’t quite a girl. Being an athletic kid, I would admire how strong my body was. I remember being in awe that I had abs and strong arms like the men I would see in magazines. I’ll never forget the first time someone thought I was a boy: It was on Halloween, and I was dressed as a dead man walking. I laughed in pure joy in disbelief that someone finally saw me as something other than a girl. And while I wasn’t completely disgruntled with my post-pubescent body, I would still dream of my flat chest. Sometimes I even identified as a boy in my dreams. I thought it would just be a phase, but those feelings never quite went away. I wouldn’t try to pass as a man again until I was 19. Now out of high school and feeling less pressure to conform, I retreated back to a part of myself that I pretended was long gone. Of course, my plan backfired, as my now “womanly” body was a dead giveaway. I felt frustrated and confused; I couldn’t quite figure out why I wanted to be seen as a man so badly. The thought of me being trans had crossed my mind before, but it never felt quite right. All I knew was that I wasn’t a woman, but I didn’t necessarily feel like a man either. When I first heard of the term “nonbinary,” I knew I’d found an explanation for what I’d been experiencing since childhood. After many discussions and internal dialogues, I finally decided to come out as trans. I felt a sense of freedom in finding the vocabulary for my gender identity, but my troubles weren’t entirely resolved. Nonbinary is an umbrella term for a number of gender nonconforming and trans identities. Not all nonbinary individuals identify as trans, but for me it felt right, as I knew that I would undergo physical and medical transition at some point in my journey. Shortly after coming out, I faced various obstacles in my day-to-day life, as the world in which we live in still operates within a gender dichotomy. Aside from the “traditional” discrepancies of not identifying as a man or woman (bathrooms, dressing rooms, prefixes, etc), socially transitioning for nonbinary people can be partictularly difficult. There is still much debate whether singular “they/them” pronouns are grammatically correct or not, and this can get even more complicated if you use neopronouns. Some states now legally recognize nonbinary identites — most states do not — but without legal recognition of one’s gender, nonbinary and gender nonconforming individuals can face more difficulties when navigating work, housing and other institutions. While I felt comfortable coming out to my friends at school, I struggled with coming out to my job at the time, as I didn’t want to deal with the possibility of answering personal questions about my identity while in a professional setting (like why I use certain pronouns or identify the way I do). In fact, I’ve never been fully open about my nonbinary identity at any job I’ve held, including my current job. I still fear that I will be treated differently for it. As my social transition rocked my outer world, physical dysphoria was a thief in the night. My body began to feel more and more like a prison. Binding was a temporary fix, but it started to wear on me having the part of my body that I hated the most squeezed and compacted against myself, barely being able to breath. Not being the thinnest person, my curves and hips became more apparent than ever. Every part of my body just seemed wrong. As much as I didn’t identify as a woman, my body screamed it. Over time, I began to dissociate from my body entirely, as it felt like the only way to feel comfortable on a daily basis. Three years after coming out, I reached a breaking point. I’d injured myself too many times while binding, and I was too scared to try again. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, and physical intimacy with partners became a source of anxiety. I was desperately trying to hide my chest: Tight sports bras replaced binders, and I wore oversized clothing to obscure my body shape. It was again, a temporary fix, and over time, that too was not enough to ease my discomfort. I thought getting top surgery would cure most of my dysphoria, but with that came many questions — primarily if I could even get the surgery as a nonbinary person. Learning the parameters around getting gender affirming surgery is an in-depth process. I was able to find some great online resources (YouTube FTW), but each state and insurance company has its own policies regarding trans health care — if it even covers trans health care to begin with. To qualify for insurance coverage, most people in the U.S. must fit this criteria: They must have persistent, well-documented gender dysphoria; the capacity to make a fully informed decision and to consent for treatment; 18 years of age; and a reference from a mental health professional. It should also be noted that many insurance companies do not acknowledge nonbinary identities, which can make the process even more difficult. I wish my experience in getting surgery was considered the norm for most trans folks, but it is unfortunately the exception. I was grateful to have a steady job with insurance that covered my surgery, a community that helped me raise money to pay for my procedure, someone to take care of me after surgery and enough vacation hours to have my time off paid in full. And with the current administration continuing to threaten the livelihood of trans individuals, enough was enough. It was now or never. I had no idea what the outcome of this journey would be, but I was tired of living what felt like a double life. In the heat of the #WontBeErased movement — a direct response to the Trump administration’s attempt to eliminate the civil rights of trans people — I booked a consultation with a surgeon who performed top surgery on two of my friends earlier that year. When I showed up for my first appointment, I was only there for about 30 minutes. My surgeon asked what my pronouns were, looked at my chest, told me which procedure would work best for my breast shape and size, and that was that. I thought I would be asked a number of grueling questions about why I wanted to get top surgery, or that I would have to prove that I really was trans. I left in total shock and with a newfound sense of hope. After months of raising money, waiting for my insurance to approve that my procedure was in fact “medically necessary” and researching every little piece of information I could about the recovery process, I was ready for surgery. There was no turning back. But I was still anxious about the social repercussions I could face. I still am not fully out as trans at my current job, and while my boss and close co-workers accept my identity and supported me in recovery, I wondered if anyone else would notice a difference in my appearance, or worse, ask me about it. I knew my dating options would change because my anatomy would be different, clothes would become even more of a challenge in some cases, and what if I regretted my decision in the end? Getting surgery would also force me to come out to my parents, and I had no idea if they would reject or accept my identity. I never quite got to having “the talk” with my mom and dad — as they stumbled upon my GoFundMe page first — but nevertheless, they provided their undying support. Knowing I had their blessings, love and support helped fill the void of anxiety and ease the fear I felt in the weeks and months leading up to surgery. The week leading up to surgery was a mess. I could barely sleep. I was working 10 hour days and battling a cold. But underneath the haze of worries and stress, I was subconsciously divorcing myself from a part of my body I thought I would never escape. It wasn’t until I sat down to write in my journal the night before surgery, that I was able to come back to what all of this was for: my health and my livelihood. I woke up on the morning of my surgery feeling confident and at peace. I remember being in the surgery prep room with my best friend: We sat there holding hands with nervous excitement. I was in a hospital gown with Sharpie markings on my chest, classical music played faintly in the background. I turned to him and he had tears in his eyes. He squeezed my hand and told me he was proud of me. We both knew how much I had to go through in order to be at this place in my life. In a matter of hours, I would be a new person. Now, four months after surgery, not once have I regretted my choice. If anything, I feel more confident in making the decision. My body still does not look perfect (surgery scars are not the sexiest thing), but I finally understand and have experienced the gender euphoria that many express having after medical and surgical transition. I feel more connected to my body than ever before. I love looking at myself in the mirror and seeing my clothes contour around my body the way I always wanted them to. Sometimes, I still feel like I’m in the dreamlike state I experienced right after surgery. But the reality of it is better than I could have imagined.