When Did This Become Normal?
I changed my underwear recently.
That’s it. That’s the story.
Except apparently it isn’t, because a few months ago changing from boxers to panties would have been An Event. There would have been emotions. Analysis. Probably several paragraphs about gender affirmation and what it means to finally allow myself something I had wanted for years.
Now I open the drawer and grab underwear.
They just happen to be panties.
Even that word is becoming less weird, although I reserve the right to giggle at it occasionally because panties is objectively a ridiculous word.
This keeps happening.
I put on a sports bra in the morning because I need one. Not because wearing a bra makes me feel feminine. Not because it is part of some elaborate transformation ritual. I put one on because I have boobs and apparently boobs have opinions about gravity, stairs, polyester shirts, and occasionally the simple act of existing.
And nipples? Yeah, they can be fun, or complete nightmares.
Hair has become strangely ordinary too, which is particularly ridiculous considering most of mine spends the night sitting on stands.
There are women all over my house now.
Josie is the sweet little short-haired one who can hang around the house without demanding attention. Katarina is gorgeous but requires supervision. Cherry has recently made a very strong argument for herself. Michelle is waiting patiently for her chance. Star could use a little attention.
Months ago, putting on a wig meant something.
Now sometimes it means, “Where the hell did I put Josie?”
Makeup is doing it too.
I used to approach makeup like I was preparing for a space launch. Every product had a purpose. Every step required concentration. There were tutorials and questions and experiments and occasional disasters. I would finish, stare at myself, and experience that wonderful little shock of seeing her looking back.
Now I’m annoyed with my eyebrows.
Not philosophically.
I am specifically annoyed that there is too much eyebrow in places where I do not want eyebrow, and I have spent an absolutely unreasonable amount of time considering precisely which eyebrow hairs deserve to die.
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This is apparently this is all just part of my life now.
And I didn’t notice it happening.
That’s the strange part.
Transition comes packaged in milestones when you first start. First hormones. First time presenting in public. First dress. First makeup. First time someone sees you. First time a stranger gets it right. First time you look in the mirror and, just for a second, see the person you’ve been trying so desperately to find.
Everything is enormous because everything is new.
Then one day you’re standing in your bedroom wearing panties and a sports bra, deciding which hair you’re in the mood for while wondering whether taupe or auburn eyebrow gel is going to work better, and none of this seems particularly remarkable.
Until you remember that it used to be impossible.
There are still places where I can’t be Amber. There are still moments when being myself feels frighteningly complicated. There are still things I want desperately enough that waiting for them makes me want to scream.
So I’m nowhere near the mythical finish line.
But somewhere along the way, parts of the extraordinary became ordinary.
I thought that might make them feel less precious.
It doesn’t.
There is something wonderfully ridiculous about realizing that the life you once imagined in these huge, dramatic flashes eventually becomes things like laundry. Bras in the hamper. Makeup scattered across the bathroom counter. Hair that needs detangler. Dresses hanging beside clothes that aren’t dresses.
You don’t wake up every morning overwhelmed with gratitude that you get to brush your teeth.
You just brush your teeth.
Maybe that’s what I was actually chasing all along.
Not a life where every morning I wake up and think:
Oh my Goddess. I get to be a woman today.
A life where someday I barely think about it at all.
I just wake up.
And I’m me.
