For the past three years or so, I’ve been living out a surgical saga. Several procedures, two different states, and many changes: Some subtle and unnoticeable, others, hard to miss (a nod to my treasured D cups, and the brilliant surgeon who placed them).

The most important part? I was surrounded and held by my community the whole time. 

A little over six years into my transition, I reached a decidedness. I had allowed time for hormones, exercise, and strategically placed fillers to carry me past dysphoria, but feelings about my face persisted.

After a first round of affirming procedures in late 2022, (which excluded any major facial work thanks to a series of uniquely Floridian insurance restrictions as anti-trans sentiment swept across federal and state capitols) I made a break for NYC and roughed it for months until I secured a comprehensive insurance plan. I relied on queer housing networks, good friends, and LGBTQ+ organizations to point me in the right directions. 

After half a year of appointments, letters, waitlists and worry, I received a call to fast-track my consultation with a coveted facial surgeon by two years. I jumped at the chance, and before I knew it the surgery was on the books. 

For the second time in three years, my biological mother took a week off work to stay by my side as I healed. A GoFundMe campaign quickly amassed the other half of associated expenses I couldn’t foot on such short notice. My best friends brought me food, comfort and joy as I recovered, even allowing me a place of their own for the extended healing needed. 

Every night my mother and I marveled at the New York City skyline before I settled in bed for an OxyContin induced cold compress routine where I’d used the stray water droplets to disguise my stream of joyful tears. 

My face had been made a bit more beautiful but it was my luck that overwhelmed me. So many hands coming together to make me whole healed me in ways I did not expect.