On the surface, the photo reveals what was readily apparent to everyone who knew me at that age: that I was a gender nonconforming child. As a young boy, my femininity was an open secret; understood by everyone, discussed by none. In carefree moments, it showed itself abundantly — I’d frolic with the girls during playtime, reach for the sparkliest fabrics during dress up and joyfully twist my hips during dance class.

Sitting on the floor in the house I grew up in, I placed the photo delicately in the “to be scanned” pile. This one was a keeper, for sure. It told exactly the story I needed. See, world? Even from an early age, Jacob has always been this way. I started to move on to other photos, but something stopped me.

I picked the photo back up, taking a second look. In my haste, I’d missed the forest for the trees. Yes, my outfit is adorable. Yes, the photo illustrates that my love for tulle began at a very early age. Yes, it is a charming relic of my sissy heritage . But once you get past the outfit, a much more significant detail emerges: the expression.

The face I’m making confounds me. Surely, I was overjoyed to be wearing that skirt. As a trans child bursting with curiosity about my gender , I took any chance I could get to sport flowing fabric, don flowers and wear extravagant hats — the kind I wasn’t usually allowed to wear at home. In this particular photograph, I was doing all three. So why wasn’t I smiling?

Looking at it now, I have a guess as to what my blank expression was reflecting: eyes wide, corners of mouth turned ever so slightly downward, as if whatever emotion I had the moment before had been vacuumed out.