Six Months, Fifty-Two Pounds, and an Eight-Dollar Witch
October 16, 2026
Six months. Today marks six months since I began hormone replacement therapy. Six months since I took another enormous step toward becoming the woman I had spent most of my life hiding. Actually, that’s not quite right. I didn’t become a woman six months ago. I’ve been one for as long as I can remember. Six months ago, I finally began giving my body permission to catch up. And today? Today was quite a day.
I stepped on the scale this morning and saw 173.8 pounds. When I began this journey, I weighed 226. That’s 52.2 pounds gone. I haven’t weighed this little since my thirties. But the number wasn’t the most important thing. The important thing was that I got dressed, did my makeup, put on my favorite chestnut-brown wig, and went out into the world. As me. Not as a special occasion. Not as a performance. Just another woman with an appointment and errands to run.
My six-month HRT follow-up was this morning. Afterward, I met up with a new friend. We talked, enjoyed each other’s company, and I went about my day as just another woman out in Austin. Somewhere along the way, I noticed lipstick on my coffee cup. Such a small thing. Such an ordinary thing. And I loved it.
I went shopping at Target, bought a new eyeshadow palette and a delicate bracelet that catches the light. The bracelet is a little reminder of how much I shine. I wasn’t celebrating my femininity with some grand gesture. I was simply living it. Because that’s what I’ve been discovering lately. The things I dreamed about for decades weren’t always grand or dramatic. Sometimes they were astonishingly mundane. Going shopping. Wearing a pretty blouse. Choosing earrings. Leaving lipstick on a coffee cup. Meeting a friend for coffee. Being a woman without having to make an event out of it. For a few hours today, that was my life.
And then I drove home.
There’s something I’ve been trying to explain to people about my transition. For most of my life, my world was a tiny room. I could move around inside it, but the walls were always there. There were things I couldn’t say, things I couldn’t wear, places I couldn’t go as myself. Over the last six months, that room has expanded into an entire city. Austin has become a place where I can walk into a store, meet friends, dance, eat, shop, and simply exist as a woman. But the farther I drive from that city, the smaller my world becomes. By the time I get home, the walls have closed in again.
I still have a job where I must be careful. I live in a community where being recognized could have consequences. Even going to the grocery store requires a calculation. Do I go as myself? Do I risk being seen? Do I drive somewhere else? My house sometimes feels like both my prison and my parole office. And parole costs about fifteen dollars in gas and tolls every time I want to experience the freedom I’ve worked so hard to find.
Later, I needed to go to Walmart. Walmart. Such an ordinary destination. Except here, close to home, it comes with an entirely different set of calculations. Someone might recognize me. Someone might connect the woman they’ve seen elsewhere with the computer science teacher they know. So I went in boymode. Or what passes for boymode these days. Because here’s something I hadn’t quite appreciated until today: my boymode no longer looks much like the man I presented as a year ago. No makeup. No wig. Nothing particularly glamorous. And yet, looking at myself, I realized I resembled my mother at about 45 more than that old version of me. Apparently, even my disguise is transitioning.
An older gentleman complimented my “cute shirt.” And I bought Monsters, Inc. body glitter. Yes. Body glitter. Because apparently the Divine GoblinCat School of Maximum Glitter has an expanding curriculum, and I am constitutionally incapable of walking past a promising sparkle opportunity. I couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity. Here I was, supposedly hiding my femininity, while wearing a cute shirt, getting compliments, and purchasing glitter inspired by a children’s movie.
And then, later tonight, something remarkable happened. I compared two photographs of myself. One was taken earlier today, fully dressed and made up, wearing my favorite wig and smiling at the camera. The other showed me in what I still call boymode. Baseball cap, red glasses, bright pink shirt, no makeup. I looked at that second picture and realized something. I couldn’t find him. The man I used to see in every photograph, every reflection, every mirror. The person I spent decades presenting to the world. I couldn’t recognize him anymore.
Then I tried something different. Instead of looking for him, I looked for her. And there she was. No makeup. No wig. No carefully arranged curls or expertly blended eyeshadow. Just a woman in a baseball cap and a ridiculously pink shirt covered in ice cream. Me.
I don’t know whether I can adequately explain how extraordinary that feels. For months, I’ve been learning to recognize myself in the mirror. Makeup helped. Wigs helped. Clothes helped. Hormones helped. Every new experience gave me another little piece of the woman I had always known was there. But tonight, I discovered that I didn’t need any of those things to find her. I only needed to look. Perhaps the most remarkable change of these six months isn’t what the mirror shows me. It’s who I’ve finally learned to recognize.
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My house may still feel like a prison and parole office, but the prisoner is becoming increasingly difficult to disguise. And perhaps that’s part of why this stage of my life is so strange. I’m not the person I was a year ago. My face has changed. My body has changed. The way I move, speak, and carry myself has changed. But the rules governing where I can safely be myself haven’t caught up.
People tell me how lucky I am. They tell me I’m feminine, that I pass, that I’ve made amazing progress. And I appreciate those compliments. But sometimes they hurt, too. Because I don’t want to be a woman only when I’m far enough away from home. I want the freedom to be glamorous one day and wear leggings and a sweatshirt the next. I want to decide how I look based on how I feel, not on how far I am from someone who might recognize me. I don’t want permission to leave my tiny room occasionally. I want the walls gone.
And then there’s another experience I hadn’t anticipated. A man recently expressed romantic interest in me. A cisgender, straight man. I’m still trying to find the right word for how that makes me feel. Honored? Perhaps. Surprised? Absolutely. Flattered? Yes, I think that’s part of it, too.
There’s something wonderfully unexpected about discovering that a man who identifies as straight sees me as a woman he finds attractive. Not because I need his approval to know who I am. I settled that question a long time ago. But because being seen that way, so naturally and without hesitation, is still a relatively new experience for me. And I find myself smiling about it.
He’s a genuinely nice man. Kind, affectionate, and generous with his compliments. We’ve enjoyed talking, laughing, and getting to know each other. His feelings seem to have developed a little faster than mine, and I’m still figuring out what to make of that. I don’t think our connection will become a romance. Friendship feels much more natural to me, and I hope that’s something we can enjoy.
But the experience has given me something else to think about. For so much of my life, I wondered what it would be like to be seen as the woman I knew myself to be. Now I’m discovering that being seen can lead to all sorts of unexpected possibilities, including some I hadn’t even considered. And with those possibilities comes another lesson: I get to decide which ones I want to explore. I can appreciate someone’s affection without feeling obligated to return it in the same way. I can be flattered, surprised, and genuinely touched while still knowing what feels right for me. That’s part of freedom, too.
For most of my life, I shaped myself around other people’s expectations. Now I’m learning to build relationships where I can simply be myself, without having to become what someone else hopes I’ll be. I want people in my life. Friends, companions, dance partners, perhaps someday someone special. I want affection, laughter, closeness, and shared adventures. But I also want room to grow. After spending so many years in that tiny room, I’ve discovered something important. I don’t want to belong to anyone. I want to belong with people. And there’s a world of difference between the two.
So, yes. Today has been a mixture of triumph and frustration. Joy and sadness. Freedom and the painful awareness of its limits. But the day wasn’t finished with me yet.
Tonight, I pulled out an eight-dollar strawberry-blonde wig. Eight dollars. I’m honestly amazed the hair stays attached. She’s long, ginger, slightly wild, and possessed of a personality entirely disproportionate to her purchase price. I dampened her hair and twisted it with my fingers, trying to bring some life back into the waves. And there she was. Endora. Named after Samantha’s gloriously eccentric mother from Bewitched.
Of course, Endora can’t simply wear ordinary makeup. Oh, no. She requires copper, purple, berry lips, and enough glitter to alarm a sensible person. Fortunately, sensible people have never been the target audience of the Divine GoblinCat School of Maximum Glitter. And somehow, after everything today, I found myself smiling over an eight-dollar wig and planning the makeup for a witch who doesn’t exist yet. Except she does. She’s another little piece of me waiting to come out and play.
Maybe that’s what six months has really given me. Not perfection. Not a completed transition. Not a life without problems. But possibilities. Six months ago, my world was so much smaller. Today, I can see how enormous it might become. I still have walls to knock down. I still have difficult choices ahead. There are relationships to navigate, places I want to go, and a life I am determined to build. But I’m not waiting for someone to give me permission anymore.
I’m building a world big enough to hold all of me. The teacher. The dancer. The maker. The woman who loves purple. The slightly ridiculous witch with an eight-dollar wig. All of her.
Happy six months to me.
Happy. Moving. Consistent.
And apparently, occasionally covered in glitter.
