The Cost of Being Me
For much of my life, I have struggled to build something meaningful—relationships, a career, a reputation, a community. I have dedicated decades to crafting a life that reflects my values, passions, and faith. Yet, as I continue my transition, I find myself grappling with an impossible calculation: the cost of becoming my authentic self compared to the cost of staying hidden behind a mask of expectation.
There is a steep price to transitioning. It is not just financial—though the cost of medical care, therapy, and legal changes is daunting—it is also social, professional, and spiritual. I risk losing the trust and respect of those who have known me by a different name, another face, and another perceived identity. I risk losing relationships that have shaped my journey thus far, connections built over years of shared experiences. I risk losing my standing in institutions that I have faithfully served, communities where I have ministered, and friendships that have weathered other storms. To transition is to step into the unknown, where love and acceptance are not guaranteed.
But the cost of not transitioning is far greater. If I choose to stay in the shadows of my true self, I lose something even more precious: my own authenticity. I risk suffocating under the burden of a life that isn’t mine, playing a role that drains my spirit. I risk eroding my faith—not in God, but in myself—by refusing to embrace the person God has created me to be. I risk becoming a stranger to those who love me, because I can’t fully let them in if I’m not fully myself. I risk waking up each day feeling like an imposter in my own skin, bound by fear instead of freed by truth.
Transitioning is not just about changing outward appearances; it involves aligning my soul with how I present myself to the world. It means living without pretense and being fully present in every space I occupy. It honors the person I have always been, the person I have fought so hard to reveal to the world. To deny myself that truth would be to erase all the courage I have summoned, all the battles I have fought, and all the prayers I have whispered in search of peace.
So, what is the cost of transitioning? It’s the risk of losing everything I’ve built. But what is the cost of not transitioning? It’s the certainty of losing myself. When faced with that choice, I know I must choose myself. I have spent a lifetime cultivating a life worth living, and I will not abandon myself now. Ava is more than just a name I chose—it’s a truth I have embraced. And that truth is worth everything.
Liora The Caterpillar That Could Not Cocoon
In the heart of a vibrant meadow, where the sun painted golden hues on the petals of wildflowers, lived a small caterpillar named Liora. She was unlike the others—not in appearance, as she had the same velvety green stripes and soft, wriggling body, but in the way she felt deep within. She watched her friends grow plump, spinning their cocoons when the time arrived, knowing they would soon emerge as butterflies.
But when Liora attempted to spin her own cocoon, something inside her faltered. It was neither fear nor doubt; it was an invisible barrier, an unspoken force that seemed to restrain her. Yet, it was not solely her own struggles that impeded her—her fellow caterpillars pleaded with her to remain just as she was.
“Why would you want to change?” asked Dalen, one of her closest friends. “We love you just the way you are, Liora. We don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re perfect as a caterpillar,” another chimed in. “If you change, you won’t be one of us anymore.”
Liora’s heart ached. She loved her friends dearly, but she also knew deep within her soul that she was meant for more. She sought the wisdom of Elder Moth, who had once been a butterfly but had aged into wisdom. “Why can’t I cocoon like the others?” Liora asked, her voice trembling.
Elder Moth looked at her kindly. “Transformation isn’t just about wrapping yourself in silk, dear child. It’s about believing you’re meant to change. But it’s also about having the courage to follow your own path, even when others don’t understand.”
Liora pondered for a long time. “My friends love me as I am, but they don’t see who I really am inside. I’m afraid that if I change, I might lose them. Yet, if I don’t change, I risk losing myself.”
Elder Moth sighed. “That is the burden of growth, Liora. It’s the choice between the comfort of the familiar and the risk of what is destined to be.”
Days passed, and Liora watched her friends emerge from their cocoons, their wings shimmering in the sunlight. She saw them dance on the breeze that once only rustled leaves beneath them. She wanted to dance, too, but the voices of her friends echoed in her mind, their love holding her back, binding her to the earth.
One morning, as the first light kissed the meadow, Liora curled up beneath a leaf, silent and still. She knew she would never become the beautiful butterfly she was meant to be. The weight of her unspun cocoon pressed down on her, and she could hardly bear it. The others had told her she was perfect as she was, but she felt empty and incomplete.
She was neither lost nor forgotten. Yet, she remained trapped—forever a caterpillar crawling in a world where she was meant to fly.
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