It’s odd. I’ve always considered myself a writer, but I’ve always found it hard to write in my own voice. As myself. Poetry, Fiction, commentary–these genres were infinitely easier than writing a mere letter to someone. That seemed too personal. The task made me uneasy and anxious. As much as a simple thank-you note could involve dozens of drafts and hair-pulling fits of exasperation.
But since beginning my transition, I’ve found a voice. I don’t think it’s a new voice. Rather, it’s a voice long buried by fear and anxiety. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of being misunderstood. And fear of emotion.
It’s my real voice. A voice yearning to express itself after years of silence.
It’s still unsure of itself, sometimes. Halting here and there. But it flows from my imagination without the restraints of timid self-censorship.
My voice is not afraid anymore.