When the Stars Don't Catch You: Falling, Flying, and Everything in Between: Part 1

I flap and flap and flap and slam and slam and slam against the walls of the cage.

My muscles scream at me to stop. My heart pounds and my stomach lurches, my lungs burn and my eyes water, my head swims and my skull throbs. I smell the cool, damp earth and I shiver in the cold. I hear the screeching of the other birds, crying out of fear and anger. I’m a candle burned down to the wick, and I can’t help them. I am too exhausted to help. I taste the metallic in my mouth and the bile rising from my throat.

“When can I stop?” I wonder.

But when I do stop, I panic. My breath is so fast that I get light-headed and dizzy from the lack of oxygen. They will know I’m a failure if they see the true me. I want to reach out but I’m so scared, scared of rejection, scared of judgment, scared of getting hurt, scared, scared, scared. All I want is a break but when it comes I feel I might die from exposure; that someone will kill me for my failure. 

I’ve never been this stressed out in my life. I’ve never been this busy in my life. I’ve never been this tired in my life. I repeat this refrain over and over again and somehow it comforts me even though I know it’s not the first nor the last time.

Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe we’re all just birds in a cage.

---

Work is one cage, that reliable friend we never had, always there for us. We suffocate there, fainting and losing consciousness for a while. When we wake, we see our shared struggles and we unite to break the chains that hold us down. But then we suffocate and the world goes dark again.

---

It was 2021 and I was living in Prague. I had “made” it: I was getting paid to write a book about a subject I was deeply passionate about. I had a PhD, I was fluent in a foreign language and proficient in another (a life-long goal of mine). 

I was living the dream: I had my own office and a fancy title on my business card. I had a rough draft of a book. Words were flowing from my fingers at the keyboard everyday.

I had finally come out to myself and my community as trans and was starting my gender transition. I went from ponytails to buzz cuts, from bras to swim trunks. I went from make-up to pomade, from earrings to studs. That was the moment that I truly took my life into my own hands, took the wheel and drove off into the sunset.

My muscles tightened, my eyes dried up, my sex drive sky-rocketed, my body hair thickened, my voice deepened, my shoulders tucked back, my chin held high. I was true. I was authentic. No more faking, no more lying, no more posing, no more being an imposter. I was ready to move on, and live in my full authentic self, my fully unmasked body, heart, mind, soul. I was going to be an artist, a writer, and help others find their true selves. I was going to be a role model for growth and transformation, a physical model of what it means to grow and change and not care what anyone else thinks and not care what society thinks, and just be myself. Nobody was going to let me down, nobody was going to get in my way. I was the true embodiment of authenticity, of soul, of essence, of being. I was going to drive the car from now on. The driver was no longer my fear, nor my ego. It was my Self. I had agency and I was taking responsibility for my life. I was handsome. I was trans. And nobody could tell me otherwise. I was a writer, I was a geographer, I was queer. And I was in love. That summer felt like poetry, the rhythm of the sun and the afternoon rain, the sound of thunder in the day and the crickets at night. The back and forth of cool nights and hot days. The freedom of a lengthy daytime, the beat of music at the rooftop bar, the slip and slide sweaty mess of jiujitsu, riding my bike home, weaving between the traffic lights and headlights, the late night noodles and shawarma and pizza by the slice. Summer felt like possibility, adventure, and freedom. Time for something new, for play: word play, mind play, body play, heart play. Thick with desire and hot with pursuit, I was growing and settling in. "Anything is possible," they said. "Dream big," they said. I was so close. This was all I ever wanted. My last dream to complete. Just finish the damn book already. But nobody ever said it was going to be easy.

---

All of the sudden, I’m slammed on my back and choked out. I get up and am immediately tripped, and my head slams against the mat again. A man with a full tattoo suit from his skull to his toes smothers me with his size and weight. Wristlock. Ankle lock. Knee lock. I stand up and tie my belt back on. And again: Choke, arm bar, triangle, shoulder lock. I look at the clock. Two minutes have gone by, five left to go. His eyes look like a cat who is stalking and batting around its prey before the kill. Fear bubbles up into my throat and my eyes smart, my nose running from the pressure of the chokes, liquid overflowing in my nasal passages. I’m scared but I don’t know how to walk away, to ask for a break, to concede defeat while keeping my dignity intact. 

I’m in Prague at the local jiujitsu gym soon after my gender transition and I have a sick feeling in my gut that I’m being bullied and targeted for being trans. But there’s no way to prove it except for the fact that this is the first time I’ve ever felt this way in my 10 years of training jiujitsu at that point. Words float into my head: “If you want to be a man, then you better be ready to be treated like one.” 

The most toxic of all toxic masculinities: “I was traumatized so the only thing I know to do is to traumatize others. I was hazed so you also need to be hazed.” Something known as “malgendering:” If you want to be a man, you have to act like one. If you want to be a man, then you have to be ready to receive the physical abuse that we suffered. There is no alternative narrative, no other way to be. To be gentle is not to be male. To be male is to inflict pain and wield power.

I was someone who had embraced and celebrated idealistic notions: “Don’t let anyone tell you what you can’t do, prove them wrong every time, you are the only thing standing in your own way, you can achieve anything that you put your mind to, all you have to do is believe in yourself.” And I was learning that my ideals were not all they're cracked up to be.

---

The poster on the 7th grade classroom wall said to shoot for the moon, even if we miss we’ll land among the stars. They told us, don't worry, we must fall before we can learn to fly.

But now here I am, 4 years later, and I have nothing to show for it. Disappointment bangs in my head, and my chest burns with shame.

The truth is that I chose this life–the comfort, the predictability. No more risks, no more chances to hear criticism. In its place is boredom.

I had to admit that I chose this life. If I wanted change, then I must claim accountability. If I wanted joy back. Doubt started to creep in. Questions popped in my mind. Regret ballooned in my chest. And with that anger. Anger at my past self for not being stronger. 

When is it too late to make a change? 

But with any change, loss comes along for the ride, and with loss, pain follows. And that’s what I’m afraid of. 

My dreams, my hopes, my ideals. They were crumbling.

And now I have a choice. Negligence versus accountability. Resurrect old dreams or come up with new ones. 

But is this all there is? Wake up, work, go to sleep. You set the goal, you do the thing, you feel empty. You watch the world go by, but feel utterly alone: Nobody cares, nothing matters. We’re all gonna die anyway, so what’s the point?