…knowing that when I was 17, I had a full goatee, short curly hair, a flat muscular chest, a boxy body shape, a deep rumbling voice and no conception, no idea whatsoever that I would one day be the woman I am now.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and just go, “holy shit, I have breasts” or “holy shit I look so different.”

Sometimes I fall back on my bed and stare at the ceiling and go, “wow, I’m a girl.”

You fight so hard, just to get even one iota of leeway to be you, and sometimes you forget. You forget what it is you’ve gotten. What it is you are because you’re too busy fighting these battles, too busy not getting a chance to breathe; too busy being a battle maiden, sword dripping with blood, slashed and torn and still fighting; too busy just trying to survive.

But those times when I remember. They are so amazing.

When I realize how far I came from that scared little kid who made breasts out of clay on his chest in the basement and didn’t understand why the weight felt right.

How far I came from the confused high schooler, with a thick goatee and cropped hair, who still held water balloons under his shirt for just a moment, thinking that looked right.

How far I came from the college student who used being into metal music as an excuse to grow out his hair and hilarious hijinks as an excuse to go to crossdressing parties when all he wanted was to be a her.

How far I came from the frightened young woman, trapped in an abusive relationship with a rapist because it was the only place she could be herself, dress like herself and be called her and the alternative was more painful than being struck, being screamed at, being afraid.

How far I came from the incremental flow of halting progress, when I thought that laser would be enough and then crossdressing part time would be enough and then crossdressing full time would be enough and then breastforms would be enough and then tucking would be enough and then going by a girl’s name would be enough and then maybe I couldn’t escape hormones after all…

…I lay on my bed, look down at myself, my breasts, my curves, my widened hips, my legs, my arms, my shoulders; I feel my hair, the softness of my skin and the shape of my face; I speak with my mid toned and rumble-less voice. I stare at the ceiling and I think,

“Wow. I’m a girl. And I made it happen. I fought and won.”

I’m a girl. I did this.

My victory.