May 24, 2025
Are we all living our own fantasies? Is that thought worth having if it’s almost definitely been explored in great depth by philosophers past and present?
What does it mean to be a storyteller today? It sounds romantic but how harmful is it to tell stories that sell someone’s own version of the world, or even a microcosm, for one’s personal benefit?
How can I get past the torment of wanting to archive my old writings here and wanting them to have a consistent format, which necessitates editing, which necessitates a style guide or cohesive stylistic choices, which sometimes alter or bring into question the original intent of the writing, which leads to me wanting to re-explore old ideas and polish naive thoughts, which leads me to question their accuracy, which opens endless rabbit holes, which invites the use of AI to attempt to fact-check and relieve myself of certain tedium, which alters the piece and renders it inauthentic, which counters the original archival task, which then leads one’s archive feeling poisoned, which it most certainly has become.
Deleted the Pinterest, Instagram, Bluesky, and Reddit apps from my phone again. It’s difficult because in some very specific cases they are useful, but otherwise they burn time.
I don’t want to talk about AI on here but it’s zeitgeisty and I shamefully sell it through my work and it’s so controversial it made someone I care about upset that I wanted to try to make money with it and it’s poisoned my archive and it’s unavoidable in a way.
I recently had a long-term, really long-term goal reach a brick wall and it sent me spiraling and questioning the very core of my being and I want to believe something about it being about the journey, and I do cherish the highly unique memories associated with everything leading up to the wall but I wasn’t expecting the wall at all and there it is and there’s no going past it and now I don’t know which direction to go.
I was invited to go mountaineering this weekend and it was incredibly difficult to refuse, but my knee is injured from a 15km race last weekend and I know I’d make it worse by climbing and possibly have to defer the San Francisco Marathon for the third year in a row because of injury and I’ve been working hard training for it. Steep snow would really clear my mind right now.
Leaving San Francisco is so appealing, but I love meeting people, and I recently met someone who quickly became special to me, and it dampens the prospect of boxing everything up onto a truck and heading towards new perspective, maybe because this person is providing new perspective and it feels very good and maybe it isn’t about moving but not feeling good and throwing darts at the cause and shrugging and deciding it must be all of this, this place.
Is self-compassion as hard for you as it is for me?
After hitting the wall all I think I want is to care about something new as quickly as possible. It’s not something that can be forced. Like finding a new love in another human being. But it requires making yourself available, which I think I do. All I am is available. Maybe I need to stop being so available. It’s samsaric.
There are jars of peanut butter, so many of them, and cans of tuna, almost equally as many, in my kitchen cabinet, because they last so long and I enjoy them. But time passed and they’re past expiry and I can imagine myself grabbing them off the grocery shelf and looking at those dates and thinking about how unfathomably far they were, what would happen in between then and now, and now the time has passed.
It’s so difficult to realize you can’t possibly experience everything in one lifetime. Everything is so interesting. I’m envious of people who care about something so much, because I don’t know what that’s like, and I can only imagine caring about something as much as I care about everything. But maybe those I perceive to be caring about something or who themselves perceive as much only pretend to because they, too, care about everything and it’s too overwhelming, and it’s so comforting to latch onto something, anything, but something.
I used to have a world map in my bedroom in my parents’ house and I missed it, so I bought a world map to put next to my desk. It’s here now, next to me, and it’s big, and I love it. It’s big, but the text is so small and I need to stand up and stick my nose right up to it and shine my phone flashlight to read Abu Dhabi, but I still love it. There’s so much water.
Sailing is so prohibitively expensive, and sure there are ways to do it without spending so much, but if you’re not spending money, you’re spending something else. One of my few early memories of sailing was on my Uncle Vince’s boat in Delaware. I hated it. Or I was bored. Or I didn’t hate the sailing itself but something about that day and it soured me on sailing. Then I met a boy in San Francisco, well a man with a mustache that’s nice to kiss, and we started sailing together, and I started to like it more. Or maybe I didn’t like the sailing itself but something about that boy and his mustache and saltwater kisses between tacks and jibes. It’s a romanticized version, however. There was no time for romance with Captain Dave barking orders between spits of chew into the bay.
Writing is making me feel a little less lost. I do still wish I was on the mountain, though. And I’m worried about where my mind will wander when I stop writing. I should get dressed and get coffee, because sitting here in my undies after noon doesn’t feel very responsible. If I had all the money in the world I’d probably be sitting here in my undies after noon. Maybe not here. Maybe Istanbul. I’d be having a full pot of Turkish coffee, writing to no one, staring out at the seagulls over the Bosphorus.
This is where we’ll pause for now.
Oh, and here’s a song.
January 5, 2025
Sarah McBride, the first openly trans congresswoman, was recently sworn in. Before she even took office, her right to use the women’s bathroom in her workplace was threatened by another member of congress. In light of this, and many other impending threats to trans rights in the years to come, I want to share my unfiltered perspective on what it’s like to use the bathroom as a trans woman.
I’m not claiming this is how all trans people feel—it’s specifically my experience. And I’m well aware that the only reason this topic is even considered controversial is because it’s propped up by scapegoating and fabricated red herrings. I’m not writing to pile onto that conversation or keep fueling political distraction, but to let you know how scary it is to take a shit as a tgirl in 2025. Because I’m cursed to think about this shit all the damn time.
…
When I first started to medically transition, that is, to take estrogen, I knew it would be a long while before physical changes started to settle in. I’d come to terms with my own gender identity, but it was yet to match how I appeared to others externally. I could alter my wardrobe to be more feminine, but I never felt I looked quite right—I didn’t want to come across as a crossdresser (Often a self-identified man dressing as a woman). I’m not sure when I started using the women’s restroom, but at some point I knew I’d have to. Early transition is full of disconcerting gray-areas. When would I appear woman enough or trans enough to earn my place in the proper public toilet?
There’s unfounded hysteria around the possibility of trans women harming cis women in public bathrooms, but not only is that exceedingly rare (If not nonexistent!), the opposite threat is far more realistic (If not ever-present). From early on until now, almost three years in, I’ve worried about being judged for not being in the proper space—for making others feel uncomfortable, when quizzically I am the one who is overwhelmingly uncomfortable.
Before even entering the bathroom, I’m afraid someone will catch a glimpse of something manly about me, perhaps hear my voice, and try to direct me to the men’s. It just happened recently. I was dressed entirely fem, out somewhere with my boyfriend, and asked for the bathroom code. When I tried to input the code and it kept beeping incorrect, an employee blushed and gave the code to the women’s. I don’t blame them for making a subconscious assumption, but damn it hurts. Such an occurrence could be dangerous in a place less generally accepting than San Francisco. And this was a single-stall bathroom, where I wouldn’t even have to worry about others once inside.
When it comes to multi-stall facilities, I always feel like I’m intruding. I tell myself that people are there to do their private business and no one cares about me, but I still don’t want to be found out. Or if people have already decided I’m not cis, I want to set a good example for other trans women by staying completely in my lane and not inadvertently spooking anyone in any way. I don’t make eye contact. I try to shift my face away in the mirror and hide behind my hair. Sometimes I reapply lipstick to assure others that I didn’t walk into the wrong place. I never dare speak, and I never stay a second more than I have to.
Even in the supposed safety of a stall, I’m worried I’ll be discovered. Someone will spy dick through the gap between the door. My pee stream will sound unnatural, even though I’m sitting down. My feet will face the wrong direction for a split second too long. Any number of hyper-specific, subconsciously gendered actions could be misinterpreted and throw someone off. And even if I manage to follow all the scripts, like a dog can smell fear, I’ll be unmasked for simply feeling unwelcome, and that internal discomfort will be read and acted upon.
Then comes the what-ifs. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’ve heard stories. What happens if someone has a problem with me in the bathroom? Do I stand up for myself? Do I apologize for causing them to feel threatened? Play dumb? Quickly walk out?
There’s no avoiding any of this. I haven’t used the men’s bathroom for years, and I can’t imagine how awkward I’d feel in there if I was ever forced to use it. It simply would not be right. In more conservative states I’ve hesitated before choosing a bathroom at, say, a gas station. Maybe in the future there will be legal consequences for choosing a bathroom on federal property. My identification documents all say I’m a woman, so I’m legally acknowledged, but there’s policy up for adoption with language around “biological sex”, “birth sex”, etc. How far would someone go to dig up personal information about me or any other trans person that might fit their definitions of sex and gender? Could there be future genital inspections? What would happen if I got a pussy?
There’s far more to say about all this, and a lot that’s already been said. I’ll share some links for further reading below. Hope you learned something new, gained a bit of empathy, and/or this resonates in a way that makes you feel less alone. Stay safe out there, and go piss girl.
- The First Trans Member of Congress Expected Pushback Like Mace’s Bathroom Rule Philip Elliott, November 2024
- Speaker Johnson restricts use of Capitol bathrooms by transgender people Maegan Vazquez & Mariana Alfaro, November 2024
- Cis Woman Mistaken as Transgender Records Being Berated in Bathroom Christopher Wiggins, May 2023
- Transgender Butler County man says group beat him up over restroom use Amber Jayanth, July 2022
- For Trans Kids, Bathroom Choice Matters WebMD, June 2022
- Transgender People, Bathrooms, and Sexual Predators: What the Data Say Julia Serano, June 2021
- Debunking the Bathroom Bill Myth GLAAD, April 2017
- Have another good link? Send it!
December 30, 2024
Here’s a photo of me at Kalalau Beach. I was going to write about the hike, but instead ended up recapping past goals in honor of New Year’s Eve.
Fuck me, it’s been a while. A whole year, really. A busy year. That’s my excuse for not filling these pages for months. I need to stay busy, though. You can reasonably expect that if there are a good amount of subsequent posts here, I’ve had time to sit around and write them. Which is why we’re here now, at Vesuvio in North Beach, feeling self conscious in a corner booth with all my tech out, trying to think a post into existence. I’m too worried that other patrons think I’m a tech bro with my iPad and wireless keyboard and AirPods in to drown out the much-too-loud music in this otherwise cozy bar. Why do all bars need to play loud, shitty music? Music and lighting account for a large part of atmosphere, and few places in San Francisco seem to get it right.
I’d hoped to write something other than a mind dump, something of its own distinct category, but at the risk of not writing anything else at all this year, I’m doing another end-of-year recap. Unfortunately this site has become more of a voyeur’s magazine where one might wander into the mind of a stranger like me than the amalgam of more serious musings I’d hoped it would be. Guess it’s never too late to try and circumvent nihilism.
Why is this titled Kalalau? I hiked the Kalalau Trail earlier this year with my brother and a few of his friends and wanted to write about what it meant to me. It was a placeholder title for something I intended to write, and now I’m using it as a springboard for thinking back on the year. Wish I felt like getting into it with you, the hike, but I don’t. Maybe later. I pasted some old goals of mine in this draft a few lines down and I want to discuss them a bit.
These are near verbatim from a little black journal I keep in a cart near my desk at home. Every year, I try to come up with just three succinct bullet points to guide my thinking for the year ahead. And every year it gets more difficult as I trade faith in the future for the inevitable wisdom gained by going to bed each night and waking up each successive morning. Check the footnote—it’s hard to edit on an iPad and I think I’ll be too lazy later to better organize these thoughts.
Let’s get a little personal, shall we?
Goals 2018 and beyond…
- Be more authentic
- Write more, type less
- Read before adding
Starting back six years ago, here’s a snippet of what I wanted to improve upon. Let me try to guess what these meant back then.
Authenticity… this might not have anything to do with gender, but at t-minus four years until minus-t, maybe I didn’t feel myself and wanted to feel more myself but didn’t know quite how.
Writing more? I wanted to make more of an effort to write in ink vs keystrokes. A romantic thought. And I do still pen thoughts sometimes, but then it just takes more time to put them here. Not that everything has to end up here, but I like being vulnerable with you. We’re all so aloof nowadays, at least I think so, in some sense, in this post-digital era. I love reading into people’s minds, so it’s only fair I offer a portion of mine to you. Besides, when my skin suit expires and I can’t talk or type, maybe these electrons will be around to communicate for me.
Finally, “Read before adding”: It means I should burn through my read-it-later library before saving more articles.
Goals 2019 and beyond…
- Replace social media
- Focus on your book
- Become more flexible
Social media has fucked off from my life, thank god. I fucking hate privacy pirates. Instagram only occasionally, temporarily makes it back onto my phone when my brothers send a slew of reels and want to talk about them. And I guess I got Bluesky when someone who worked there sent me an invite and I was curious if someone could build a more user-friendly federated network than Mastodon.
Focus on my book? Hah… hahaha. Nice try, younger me. I had as little to say then as I do now. Everything’s already been written. I’ve tried and tried and tried, albeit not very well, to blast past the formative stages of novel writing, and I always give up. Someday maybe something will be worth writing about—just gotta keep living until it shows itself.
And flexibility… I definitely wasn’t doing yoga back then. Maybe I wanted to be less stuck in certain ways? Flexibility sounds like a cop-out goal. I have let myself get a bit stiff, though. Huh.
Goals 2020 and beyond…
- Post consistently
- See beauty in imperfection
- Take more time to breathe
Here I am posting! Consistently? Well, we’re not dead yet. More useless posts to come.
Beauty in imperfection… I sound like a monk. I think I might’ve gotten this thought after a friend in Kyiv showed me a wabi-sabi style vase with gilded cracks. It’s a good reminder in general, to invert dissatisfaction. I’ve started to like scratches on things.
More time to breathe? Again, good in theory, but god are these terrible goals. I got more creative in 2024 with the threesome idea—let’s keep more of those comin’.
Goals 2021 and beyond…
- Learn and apply something technical
- Try for 250 words per day in book
- Meditate for 1 minute daily
I’d have to think hard about something technical I learned and applied that year, but this has definitely been a focus of mine recently: Scuba, sailing, climbing, motorcycling… learning feels good, man.
More book shit, another failed attempt.
And the meditation bit is just an iteration of the previous year’s breathing goal. We get it, you’ve been a little removed from the present. I don’t think I’ll ever strike a balance between contentedness and thirst for what could be. I’m perpetually parched.
Goals 2022 and beyond…
- Daily self-compassion
- 30 minute weekly creative session
- Do a photoshoot
The compassion idea most likely arose from early days of therapy. I got a therapist in 2022 to help me figure out girl stuff. I can definitely be hard on myself. The idea of self-compassion feels simple and intuitive, but for me it’s not. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully figure it out.
The weekly creative session was yet another iteration of the book goal made even more abstract so that I might work in small bursts of inspiration and eventually create something, anything, of substance. Needless to say I did not follow through on this one.
What’s the photoshoot about? Would I be the one taking the photos or have photos taken of me? I’m guessing the latter, but the beginning of 2022 was still pre-transition, so I can’t imagine really fully feeling myself enough to want to document that particular corporeal state. Maybe I knew that I’d start altering my physicality soon and wanted to create a before for the impending after. I don’t recall if this was exactly the case, but I think I was prescribed and held onto my first batch of hormones for some time before gaining the confidence to actually pop one. Or I was waiting for some arbitrary but meaningful-to-me date and time.
Goals 2023 and beyond…
- Grow massive titties
- Be a hydration queen
- Run a fuckin’ marathon
The first one is pretty obvious. There are familial indicators as to your personal potential, but no one can ever be quite sure. Time and fat do the trick. Goal in progress.
Hydration… I wanted to be more moisturized inside and out. Still do. It’s a healthy way to be.
The marathon goal has been a bit aggravating. Sure I could work up to and run a marathon distance at any time, but I want to do a sanctioned race. The most notable one near me, the San Francisco Marathon, has evaded me for the past two years. The first year I’d lost my toenails climbing Mount Shasta and the second year I injured my ribcage slipping on the Kalalau. Entry deferred to 2025.
Goals 2024 and beyond…
- Get a girlie voice
- Have a threesome
- Discover a new place
We’ve arrived at this past year. My voice sounds like a dude still and I fucking hate it, but I’m too embarrassed and lazy to put in the work. There’s also some sense of pride in being a hot girl with a deep voice—the deliberate diversion from an impossible path toward maximum femme. I have a similar rebellious attitude towards keeping my dick.
The threesome, ah yes. There has been more than one. I’m a fan.
And as for new places, there have been many: Taipei, Tokyo, Kyoto, Lima, Medellín, Mexico City, not to mention countless spots within the states. I’m a really lucky girl.
…
Where does this leave us going forward? I’ll be honest—I had a rough holiday break. Some inexplicable sense of dread set in and cast a shadow over days reserved for rejuvenation. I’m not sure I need rejuvenation right now. I need inspiration, a real goal, and a team of people to accomplish it with. Community, challenge, learning, growth. I often tell my friends, but more oft lovers who already understand this of me, that I feel an intense energy within and simply don’t know where to direct it. I’m seething with desire to desire. I desperately want to care. And that’s all these yearly goals have ever been—an attempt to assign something to give a fuck about.
Maybe this is the year to stop with the bullets and just see where life takes me. Not that I ever heeded them too closely. 2025 is a good number—a quarter century. And I’ll be thirty next year. I think at this point in life I have a pretty good idea of how things work in general. I’m damn lucky and happy overall. Writing this piece has sure lightened my spirits after days of endless spiraling. If you’re also experiencing a moment of dismay, maybe this is your call to do something expressive. It doesn’t have to be perfect.
I wanted to share what I’ve accomplished this year like I did last year around this time, but the prospect of that is overwhelming right now. It’s my second day typing this out and I’m at a brewery with Maciej in Sebastopol.
The looming political situation has been a festering concern, considering my identity and Katya’s nationality. I think we’ll be okay, or more okay than others. But I’m worried, as many are, about the others. A lot is outside of our control. I think what I can do, at least, is to continue to share my perspective, because shared perspective invites empathy.
These are loose thoughts for now. My thoughts never feel tightened up, which is neither welcome nor unwelcome. It’s just how they are. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad writer, a lazy writer, or just a person trying their best and moving on with the day. I at least hope there are some word truffles in here for you, and that you’ve been able to sniff them out among the dirt.
April Littrell