*This is the fifth story of our Trans Visibility Series, which centers the lived experiences of trans and gender-expansive young people while connecting those stories to relevant research and data. Read the previous story in our series here, and learn more about this series or to submit your own story, click here.
I was 22, living in a cramped apartment in Columbus with a radiator that clanked all winter. Most nights I biked home from the coffee shop with my headphones dead and my legs burning, passing the same dark brick duplexes. That year, everything felt slightly off-center. I’d catch myself in the shop bathroom mirror, apron on, and think, “That’s not wrong, but it’s not right either.” I’d waste twenty minutes in the men’s section at Ohio Thrift, hands on the flannel sleeves, telling myself I was just looking.
The name George showed up first in my notes app. Just the word. No explanation. I’d open it on the bus and close it again. Saying it out loud felt like jumping without knowing if the water was deep.
Sarah was first. At the end of shift, we’re splitting cold fries and she’s complaining about a customer who wanted oat milk “but, like, foamier.” I didn’t plan it. I just said, “I think I’m trans. And I think my name’s George.”
She looked up, salt on her fingers, and said, “Okay. Hi, George.” Then she went back to the fries like I’d told her I was switching majors.
I didn’t know the statistics back then. I hadn’t read the reports from The Trevor Project showing that transgender and nonbinary youth who have their pronouns respected by the people in their lives experience a 50% lower rate of attempting suicide. I didn’t know the clinical terms for social transition. I just knew that sitting in that booth, for the first time in my life, the air didn’t feel heavy after I told the truth.
I was 24 when I told my dad. I drove to Dayton with a whole speech in my head and left it in the car. We got pizza from the place by the high school. Halfway through my second slice I blurted, “I’m still me, Dad. But I’m your son.”
He didn’t say anything. Got up, opened the fridge, stared inside, closed it. My stomach dropped. Then he sat down, drank his water, and said, “You eating that last piece?”
I shook my head. He took it and said, “You good?” I nodded. “Then we’re good.” If you look at the research briefs from the Born This Way Foundation and Hopelab, they talk a lot about family acceptance as a “primary protective factor” for LGBTQ+ young people. The data proves that familial support drastically lowers depression and fosters long-term mental health. But in a kitchen in Dayton, Ohio, a primary protective factor just looks like your dad eating the last slice of pepperoni.
He still calls me Kasey sometimes when he’s mad at the TV or half asleep. But he catches it now. “Dammit — George. Sorry, bud.” The “bud” gets me every time.
Work was 27, and I was terrified. I typed the HR email four times. Subject: Name and pronouns update. I hit send, then walked to the break room and just stood there until my manager called. “Hey, George,” she said when I picked up. She’d already switched. I told the team myself at stand-up the next morning. Ten seconds: “Quick update — I go by George now, he/him. That’s it.” Marcus gave me a nod. Sarah winked. Then we spent twenty minutes arguing about font kerning. The world kept spinning.
I started testosterone that same year. If you look at the Movement Advancement Project (MAP), you’ll see dozens of laws being tracked across the country attempting to restrict gender-affirming care, framing it as something dangerous. But the actual science — like the publications out of the University of Pennsylvania’s Eidos LGBTQ+ Health Initiative — shows exactly how life-saving and necessary this care is for trans well-being.
For me, “life-saving” was both boring and huge. My voice cracked during a client call and I turned bright red, but nobody else cared. I had to learn how to shave without cutting myself. The first time I needed deodorant twice in one day I actually laughed. I bought a green flannel from Goodwill that finally hung right on my shoulders and I stood in the dressing room for a full minute, just looking.
Maple came at 29. She was two, skinny, and hated loud noises. The shelter said “she’s nervous around men.” She warmed up to me on the car ride home. She doesn’t care what I’m called. She cares that I open the can at 6:30 and that I throw the rope. That’s enough.
Family took time in different ways. My sister got it immediately. Eli, my nephew, has only ever known me as Uncle George. He’s eight and his biggest concern is whether I’ll let him stay up to watch the fourth quarter. Mrs. Keene next door knew me since I was in braces. The day she switched was nothing dramatic — I carried her groceries up icy steps last January. She looked at me, snow in her hair, and said, “Thanks, George. You’re a good man.” I almost dropped the eggs.
I’m 31 in a few days. Yeah, people still mess up. The pharmacy. A second cousin at Christmas. A form that pulls my deadname from somewhere. It feels like a pebble in my shoe. Annoying, then out. Because most days are like last Friday: brewery with Sarah, Marcus, and Dev. The server says “you guys” and it’s not a statement, it’s just words. Dev tells an old story and says “George” without thinking. We go back to my place, Maple snores on Dev’s foot, and nobody’s studying me. I’m just there.
My dad texted me last week: “Browns draft picks look like trash again.” I replied: “What’s new.”
Same as when I was twelve. Same as when I was twenty and didn’t know who I was yet.
I didn’t convince people. I didn’t make a presentation. I just kept living. Paid rent. I walked the dog. Showed up to work and did it well. Called my sister back. Let people see me, month after month, until the guy in their head matched the guy in front of them.
The inspiring part isn’t that everyone clapped. It’s that I stopped waiting for them to. I lived like I was already George, and the people who loved me found their way there too. The rest? They don’t get a vote.
