I’m Not a Boy!

Before anything, I would like to verify that I am a woman. I was born a woman out of my mother’s womb; I was dressed in women’s clothing throughout my childhood, and I have done everything in my life as nothing but a woman. I’ve never wished to become anything other than a woman, though I hold no malice for those who intend to move away or into the gender.

But the funny thing about this story is that it started before I was born. My mother is a dichotomy, a woman of science and merit who also upholds traditional standards and superstition.

She’s the type of gal who says a woman needs not a man yet judges unmarried women of her age in the same breath. The gal who thinks some women are bad mothers for using natural remedies as opposed to nonprescription medicine, while also believing that skipping church will result in death in the family. A double-thinking mind that baffles and binds. I too was conceived in this dichotomy.

Dresses and bows

I was raised as a girly girl, even if my name suggested otherwise. My mother, ever the traditionalist in her unpredictable way, made it clear that there were certain expectations for a girl.

She disapproved when I wore pants to events or played too freely with the neighborhood boys — even though she boasted about having many friends who were boys during her youth. In her curious way, she even convinced me that I should find a boy to like at an early age, leaving me confused about how to interact with boys when I finally entered grade school.

By high school, I had never wanted to be drawn into boy-crazy behavior. I kept my head down, occasionally choosing the comfort of pants (to my mother’s chagrin) and dark colors that felt like a safe shield. I even experimented with dyeing my hair — a rebellious splash of color that, against all odds, my mother surprisingly approved of because it brightened up what she playfully called my “emo” look.

Yet, no matter how much I tried to express my individuality, my name relentlessly trailed behind me like an unwanted shadow.

The Burden of a Misplaced Identity

Every report card and classroom attendance list, I’m entangled in a misidentification that went far beyond a simple clerical error. My name was consistently registered as a boy’s, prompting confused glances from teachers and teasing comparisons by peers to a male pop star who shared the same name.

It wasn’t just a mix-up. It was an ongoing reminder that my existence was being questioned.

The situation reached its peak during my high school graduation. I was announced as one of the top English students and honored for my achievements. Yet, behind the brilliance of my accomplishment, the large screen behind me mistakenly labeled me as “Son of…” instead of “Daughter of…”. It was an error that, at that moment, seemed to undermine all I had worked for.

The misidentification didn’t stop at school. When I traveled to Australia as an exchange student for the IISMA program at the university, I was forced into a bureaucratic maze of document changes. Friends struggled to pronounce my name, and the familiar misgendering continued.

I even encountered a particularly painful rumor during my university graduation — that I was either transgender or intersex. It was a rumor that cut deep, feeding into insecurities and a feeling of alienation that seemed to color every chapter of my educational journey.

As if that weren’t enough, my name became a “bonding question” among new students during orientation.

Seniors would ask, “Is [my name] a guy or girl?” forcing the newcomers into an awkward guessing game.

“Guy, girl, or both.” They’d answer, winning candy as a prize.

Each laugh, each unsure answer, further distanced me from feeling seen for who I truly was.

The Art of Liberation

Amid this constant misidentification and the scars left by childhood trauma, I found solace in art. Art became my sanctuary — a space where labels were irrelevant and creativity reigned supreme. Unlike the rigid identities imposed on me by society and the unyielding expectations of my upbringing, art welcomed every human, regardless of name or gender.

I was free to be the person I knew myself to be with art. Every brushstroke, sketch, and vibrant color on my canvas was a declaration of my true identity. A reaffirmation that I was, a woman.

Art allowed me to transform the pain of misnaming and misunderstanding into a powerful narrative of self-acceptance and rebellion. I began to reclaim my story through creative expression, turning what many might consider a disadvantage into a badge of honor.

Becoming a freelancer further deepened this liberation. No longer confined by the limitations imposed by institutions or the judgments of peers, I embraced a life of authenticity and self-love.

Every project and collaboration became an opportunity to reshape the narrative and to remind myself (and others) that our identities are as multifaceted as the art we create.

Embracing My Truth: Self-Love and Growth

My journey has been a continuous battle against labels that were never meant to define me. Every misprinted name, every misplaced rumor, and every moment of doubt has contributed to a story of resilience. It’s a story that underscores the importance of self-love and the relentless pursuit of personal development.

I am not defined by the errors of bureaucracy or the narrow perceptions of those around me. I’m defined by passion, creativity, and unwavering commitment to being true to myself.

Every challenge and every rumor has ultimately led me to a place of freedom where my identity is celebrated, not questioned.

I share my story not as a lament, but as a declaration that while the world might misread us, it cannot misinterpret the essence of who we are. I am a woman, a creator, and an artist. And in embracing these truths, I have found a peace that no mistake or rumor can ever shake.

Living Authentic

Our identities are woven from the threads of our experiences — some tender, some traumatic, but all integral to who we are. I stand here today, proud of every misstep and every triumph, because they have sculpted me into the woman I am. My art is my voice, a continuous dialogue with the world that refuses to be silenced by outdated notions and misplaced names.

For anyone who has ever felt misjudged or mislabeled, know your truth is yours to reclaim. Embrace the art of living authentically, and let your creative spirit be the beacon that guides you through the shadows of misunderstanding. Because, in the end, being true to yourself is the most beautiful masterpiece you can ever create.

Happy creating, happy living 🩵🖌️