Photo by Eli Schmidt
I remember the first time that I connected to my body. The body I was not supposed to have. The body that I felt betrayed me for so many years. This body that I was told was female and that I would just have to live with for the rest of my life. I remember feeling so depressed in that body. I remember wishing every day that somehow, some way I would magically become G.I. Joe and have this supermasculine man body, one with muscles and abs, one in which I could feel comfortable taking my shirt off at the beach, having people run their hands across it and say, “Wow, you have a nice chest.” A body that had hair all over it like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit—you know, that kind of man chest.