A letter to the girl I used to be.

Dear Emily,

As I sit here, watching a baseball game, a voice from the past whispers in my ear, "Ethan, do you remember? When you dreamed of becoming the first girl in the major leagues? Seattle Mariners. Rally cap." But, to be honest, Emily, I struggle to recall those aspirations. Dad shared that story as if it belonged to someone else, a distant bedtime tale. However, deep down, I recognize your unwavering drive, the spirit that refused to conform to society's expectations. You never let anyone dictate how you should dress or style your hair. It didn't matter if boys thought your hair cascaded perfectly over your shoulders. But among girls, sleepovers were a delicate dance, where the space between your shoulder and theirs became a 6-inch no man's land.

I remember vividly the year you turned eleven. It was the first time you mustered the courage to utter those haunting words, admitting that you no longer wished to exist. During therapy, you boldly predicted that you wouldn't live to see 21. On my 21st birthday, your words echoed in my mind. Regrettably, you were right.

At nineteen, you began to fade away. I desperately tried to erase you, like a line I wished to expunge from the pages of my memoir. Perhaps I misunderstood the true meaning of death, for though fragments of you still linger within me, you are no longer here. Until now, most of my friends had never even heard your name. It has taken me six long months to find the strength to write this letter. I still grapple with whether it should serve as an apology or something else entirely.

But now, Emily, you will never hear the proud announcement of "Emily Smith" at a college graduation. The joy of matrimony and the profound experience of giving birth will forever elude you. When I started taking prescribed testosterone, my body ceased its monthly potential for new life. I often pondered the children you had envisioned, those precious souls I longed to have as well. I made the choice to undergo surgery, allowing a doctor to remove your breasts so that I could stand taller, embracing my true self. Yet, even if by some miracle I were to have those children, I would never be able to nourish them. My body feels obsolete, marked by scars that are superficial, never bearing the indelible imprint of a C-section.

I remember the days when I was four days late, imagining the joy of seeing my parents as loving grandparents. I reflect upon being one week late, envisioning the tender moments of cradling a lover's slumbering form. Eleven days late, the mere thought of inhaling the beauty of a sunset and sunrise within a single night. Two weeks late, yearning for the opportunity to teach my children how to jump rope. Three weeks late, the excited shouts of "Watch Mommy! Watch me on the slide!" echoing through the air. Two months late, the absence of a small figure wrapping their arms around my leg for solace or simply to steady themselves. For all of this, I am truly sorry.

The journey of transitioning has been slow, leaving you to wonder if you ever truly had a place. But, my dear Emily, you did, and you still do. Please, never forget that. You are woven into the fabric of my being, an integral part of who I am today.

With heartfelt sincerity,

Ethan

P.S. I want you to know that I never harbored any hatred towards you.