Member-only story
Seasonal Detransitioning
In winter, I still wear the clothes I wore many years ago. I can’t distance myself from that part of me
I rarely pass as anyone remotely feminine in the best of times, and that usually occurs during the warmer months when I’m able to dress with greater feminine latitude. But once the weather begins to turn, when skirts and camisoles are exchanged for boots and jeans, sweaters, coats, scarves, and all manner of protection from the elements, I find myself an unwilling object of seasonal detransition.
I live in a mountainous region of the eastern U.S. which shows no mercy for cold sensitivity for a good portion of half the year. To save my sanity during this period, I — by necessity — spend a good part of the day outdoors, mainly hiking and walking amidst the God-given beauty of this countryside.
It is while I’m out and about, wrapped-up in my protective gear, that I find myself the unwitting victim of social detransition. In my steel-toed combat or hiking boots, I am gendered male by strangers I pass. I get the head nod, common among men, a silent sign that includes me in their species.
But what’s the alternative? To stop them and say, no, you don’t understand… I’m actually a… What? What am I actually?
