A transgender woman reflects on the moment her sister tells her “I know” before she even comes out. The story covers her journey of transition, the strained relationship with her father, and the quiet hope that one day her family will fully accept her.
I don’t know when, or if, my father will ever accept me fully. But for now, I choose to believe in the power of hope, in the strength of love. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey, it’s that love—true, unconditional love—can transcend even the deepest silence.
When She Said “I Know”
I’ll never forget the moment I finally worked up the courage to tell my sister. My heart thumping so loudly, I felt she might hear it. I was shivering. We sat on her bed, the same one we had spent many evenings whispering secrets, making plans for the future, and dream-sharing. But this was unlike other things. For years, too terrified to let it out, I had carried this inside me.
“I have something to tell you,” I began, my voice barely above a whisper. She looked at me with those big, warm eyes, the ones that always seemed to know what I was feeling even when I didn’t say a word.
“I know,” she said softly, a gentle smile on her lips.
I originally found it difficult to grasp. How could she know? Not even yet had I mentioned the words. My brain flew, seeking to interpret her meaning. “What do you mean, you know?”
She stretched forward and grabbed my hand. “You’re my sister,” she remarked with a quiet conviction. “I knew always.”
Even if just a little, the weight I had been dragging about for so long seemed to drop in that instant. She knew—before I had even plucked the bravery to utter it aloud. And all the difference was somehow derived from it. My anxiety of losing her, of being turned away, vanished as she drew me into an embrace; for the first time in a very long time, I felt like I was visible.
Unspoken Love
Though merely the beginning, coming out to my sister was among the most affirming events of my life. My path of transition had both happy and sad times. Strangers stared at me, old friends asked awkward questions, and the harsh truth of society’s criticism greeted me as I started to present more honestly as my genuine self.
Still, my sister remained steady through it all. Her unspoken affection for me was evident in the way she would lend me her clothes when mine didn’t quite feel right, in the way she defended me when others couldn’t understand, and in the way she used my chosen name without thinking twice. Her help was in action, in all the tiny things that brought me back to feel entire once again, not only in words.
Still, there were other topics we omitted discussing. She never questioned me how the quiet of our father affected me or how I wept myself to sleep some evenings wanting I could be seen by him the way I was by her. Though we neither spoke it, we both knew it was there, hovering between us. Perhaps because talking about it would make the suffering more realistic.
A Father’s Silence
My father was a man of few words to start with. He had always been silent, reticent, hiding his feelings beneath a hard-bitten attitude. I always wanted his approval and attempted to win his love even though I never really knew where I stood with him when I was growing up. When I came out to him, I assumed he would understand somehow—deeply down. Perhaps despite all, Dad would still view me as his child.
But all I got was silence.
He did not yell, nor show the kind of contempt or wrath I had anticipated. He made no comments at all. He nodded once, cast a sidelong glance at me with eyes I couldn’t see and left. His quiet then spoke louder than any words could have in that instant. It informed me that he saw me as not the daughter he had hoped for. I stood in for someone else. Someone he lacked knowledge of love.
The next several months were difficult. Always assuring me that she saw me, and loved me, my sister tried to close the distance, but it was insufficient to mend the hurt my father had left. Though I could feel his remoteness like a wall separating us, every family dinner was an exercise in pretending everything was good. I tried to be patient, to think that he needed time, but every day that went by without a word seemed like another bit of me being lost.
Holding Onto Hope
I clung to optimism even though my father said nothing. One day, hopefully, Dad would glance at me and see his daughter—the woman I had battled so fiercely to become. I knew he would not find it simple. He couldn’t process a change of this kind overnight. Still, I couldn’t help but dream of a time when he would call me by name, grab my hand, and declare he loved me.
I hung onto the love I did have in the meantime. My sister was by my side, her unflinching support and the lighthouse guiding me during the worst of times. My father stayed far away, but I decided to think that deep down he was struggling with his own emotions and was looking for a means of closing the distance between us.
Transitioning was about healing the important connections, not only about realizing who I was supposed to be. Every time I glanced in the mirror, I saw the image of the woman I had always been; more than that, though, I saw the reflection of the love and fortitude my sister had given me. She knew before I spoke even the words. And that knowledge, that assurance, was something I clung to when everything else appeared doubtful.
I don’t know when, or if, my father will ever accept me fully. But for now, I choose to believe in the power of hope, in the strength of love. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey, it’s that love—true, unconditional love—can transcend even the deepest silence.
And perhaps one day he will see the mirror of his daughter in my eyes and realize I have been here all along.
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