LGBTQ, Transgender

The Hidden Beauty of Trans Lives – Rachel Anne Williams – Medium

The Hidden Beauty of Trans Lives – Rachel Anne Williams – Medium:

We all have a story to tell but not everyone can see it.


Fun Times…

While yesterday was a whirlwind, today things came to a screeching halt. We found out one of our cars has a failing alternator and the other had a shorted out headlight socket. We were lucky we had a family member who was able to come over and work on them for us, though we will have to order a new alternator before we can use both cars again.


Here Again

One of the most dangerous things I have ever encountered has been the feeling, after an extended time of everything seemingly falling apart at the seams, of things suddenly settling down. Awaking one morning free of anxiety and fear. Of the doubts and questions falling silent.

It is a devious thing which leads me to feeling as though I could continue as I have forever.

This is especially true after an extended time of slipping further and further toward an inescapable breakdown. Reaching the point where I could see it, just over the horizon, a building glow of destruction waiting patiently for me. 

I have reached this point more times than I care to remember. Some how I have survived them, though I cannot tell you how or why, though each time as left me forever changed.

This time has been in the making for months, years really, and I looked forward to embracing it with open arms.


Because I am not as strong as people seem to think. I am not brave or courageous. I am simply one person who has reached far beyond her breaking point, who’s knotted rope is frayed and in danger of snapping.

Someone who is tired beyond words but knows there are others who depend on me. People to whom I have made promises I can’t bring myself to break.


I know I said all of this countless times before and yet here I am again, still unable to believe in myself, to trust myself. Still listening to the whispers telling me I am wrong and even if I’m not, then following my heart, hoping to find some small measure of happiness, makes me selfish. 

So much of my life wasn’t about me. It was about what I could provide to others. Setting aside my own hopes and dreams so someone else wouldn’t feel like the failure she had mede of herself. I know this, yet I cannot break free of the chains she wrapped so tightly around me that I am still bound by them though she has been dead for years.

I have no doubt she wanted me dead and if not then as miserable as she was and I fear, one way or the other, she is going to get her wish.