Each time I try to write this piece I feel differently about my body, my gender, myself. Each time I conclude that I must not be ready to write it; best to experience the thing and then wait a few years to reflect, the advice generally goes. But if I don’t write it now, how will I trace my own evolution? So I dub this essay a pseudomorph, a gibbous moon, a silhouette in ink of the person I am now and whom I may no longer resemble in the future.
