So, meeting where a lot of the speakers preceding me show the header from (Deadname et al., Nature 2015) because it was relevant. A little surreal, since I also talk at the meeting and so everyone sees my transitioning, but no-one asks or comments. All in all good, I want this, it helps me know they know me as trans and accept me, and it increases my visibility. But some people misgender me occasionally with pronouns and it hurts every time, leaves me reeling, keeping active. Most do not. For every rare hint of weird looks in the ladies’ room, there is a rare event of someone striking up conversation.

All in all good. This is me. I move forward.

Then the damn hotel sends me a receipt addressed to fucking Monsieur Newname Lastname after I asked them to mail it. Is it really that bad, so that random hotel clerk spontaneously believe I must be a cis man despite dress and purple lipstick? Is my voice so deep, my face so long, something manly in my manners? What flaw drove this, is it something I can fix? Not knowing what it is, I feel so helpless. Certainly a service person would not waste time actively misgendering, so it must be the honest belief, that the thought I might be a trans woman does not even strike them? What sort of monumental masculinity is this, that overpowers everything else?

I exaggerate and sarcast, because I am bitter. I really cannot tell myself how I come across, and all my kindly loved ones just see me as they know I want them to see me. So I have no idea how strangers see me, but this makes me really deeply sad and ruminating on what could be wrong. I focus on what could be wrong because I must focus on something fixable. I’ll do anything, but what even can I do?