𝘈 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺…
The rhythmic click of my stilettos against the marble floor sounded like a triumphant melody, a celebration of the dream I had cherished since childhood.
I tossed my head back, letting my long hair ripple in gentle waves as my heart soared. With every step, I lifted my chin, radiating a pride I wanted the whole world to see.
A massive mirror along the wall caught my reflection: a woman in her prime, draped in a sleek black dress that hugged every curve.
For years, I had envisioned this version of myself, as if this image had been my true blueprint since birth. I met my own gaze, holding it with pride. Long, dark lashes framed gentle eyes; my heart-shaped face glowed with a rosy blush, and my lips shimmered, soft and inviting.
A smile of fulfillment spread across my face, but then—in a heartbeat—the reflection fractured. A wave of suppressed emotion crashed through me, and the truth I had tried so hard to silence finally broke its chains.
𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺.
“You’re a man—God made you male!” a voice echoed in the chambers of my mind. “Are you truly happy, having changed what God designed you to be?”
My eyes widened, and my heart began to hammer against my ribs, frantic and wild. Outside the hotel’s glass walls, the sky was clear and the night was still, yet a sudden bolt of lightning struck, seemingly tearing my heart in two.
A cold shiver raced down my spine as my mother’s image drifted into my thoughts. I could almost see her heart breaking; I could hear her voice, heavy with the weight of the life she had envisioned for me.
A searing pain tore me. She had raised me to be God-fearing, and we had spent my youth together, sharing stories of faith and sharing God’s love through books. But my desperation to be free—to be who I felt I truly was—had led me down a path she could never follow.
The longing had started when I was a child. While other boys played with cars, I yearned for the treasures of girlhood: dresses, sandals, dolls, and kitchen sets. I was drawn to the very way girls carry themselves and move their hips effortlessly.
In school, the frustration was a quiet, constant hum; I sat in classrooms wishing the girls’ skirts and blouses were my own. I finished high school surrounded not by brothers, but by sisters whose company only deepened my desire to belong among them.
Eventually, poverty led me to Manila, where I worked as a hair stylist and beautician. There, the distance from home granted me a dangerous freedom. There was no one to caution me, no family—and especially no Mama—to recite the verses that warned of the consequences of my heart’s desire.
Driven by that ache and some influence, I began my transformation. I worked, saved every peso, and eventually, I got what I dreamed of: the surgery that changed me, the beauty under scalpels.
My flat chest became full and rounded; my body was reshaped into the form I had seen in my dreams.
For a few years, I was over the moon. I traveled, I worked abroad, and I even found love, becoming engaged to a Singaporean man. I had finally tasted the fullness of the life I wanted.
But there, standing before that mirror, I made a sudden and sharp decision.
I hurried away from the reflection and went home, packed a few of my belongings, and tucked my savings into my bag. I booked the next flight back to the Philippines.
I knew I couldn’t go home yet—not while the confusion of how to start over still clouded my heart—so I stayed in Manila, trying to find my way back to God.
𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘥…