It’s never too late…

So, I’m not sure which quote is the proper one and since I love both versions I thought I’d share them together. 

The idea of it never being too late to become who or what you were destined to be is the best way to sum up my journey as a person in this adventure called life. 

I should have grown up to be an addict or a convict like my kin but I am not. I was assumed female at birth but I am not.

I have been really bad about keeping up with this blog due to the craziness and busyness of life so I’m going to share what’s been happening for me since my last post. 


St. Marks was trans* AND chocolate friendly
I thought Operation Squish was going to hurt like a MFer but it turns out it really doesn’t hurt much at all. Yes, it is still awkward and it can be uncomfortable for sure. I mean, the tech just grabs one of theGirls and throws her into the Squisher without really even talking much or giving you a heads up. That was a bit new for me. The Side Squish is extra awkward with your body in some unique poses and a quick command to hold your breath for a few seconds. All in all, it was not scary or painful. At the end, I even landed some chocolate love. 

I think most of my anxiety and fear was related to my gender dysphoria and the fear of the unknown. I always get extra nervous the first time I see any new doctor and especially when you know they will get all up in your biz. 

I was worried the staff here would start calling me by my birth name but they knew to ask my preferred name. It probably helped us all get on the right page that I went donning some trans* gear. 

I highly recommend getting your girls squished at St. Mark’s Hospital in SLC if you have to and if you’re trans*. They are extremely professional and trans* aware. Somebody somewhere (and I think her name starts with Dr. L;)) trained them right. THANK YOU, Dr. Luikenaar! I wonder if I could get a tee that says,”I got my Girls squished at St. Mark’s.” I’m sure that would be taken the wrong way, though.

APRIL 5, 2016: THE Day

This is when my whole life changed. I had a special date with Dr. Cori Agarwal that morning. Seriously, it was the best first date ever. Shhhhhh, don’t tell my spouse. 😉

First Day Post Op:

Bosom Buddies:


NO showering for one week was gross but then  someone  finally discovered dry shampoo!

During this time I was on some hydro for pain and that stuff wreaks havoc on your body. I learned to love prune juice. Well, as much as anyone under 85 could truly love it.

Since I couldn’t really do much myself this week, I had an adult-toddler tantrum mid week and demanded some sort of independence. Shira made me this Self-drinking Hydration System.


Meet Franken Chest! 

NO more drains! 🙂


Real men have bellies. 😉

In all honesty, though, I didn’t realize just how prominent my belly was until after the 4-pounds-worth of Girls were removed. I’m going to own my belly because I love me some pizza and beer. Hey, I’m working on that. 


NO medical binder anymore! 🙂

It’s never too late…

Searching for Mr. Courageous.



I hope everyone can forgive me. If you are reading this then that means I have decided to bare my soul and come clean about my own Dark Passenger (but not in a murderous, Dexter sort of way).

The truth is that I sometimes struggle with having the courage to go on. Sometimes choosing life has been my hardest battle. Sometimes I feel completely alone even though I know that I’m surrounded by so much love.

These last few months, I have been lost in an anxiety-filled obsession, thinking that if I weren’t here, then the pain I’m causing others would just disappear. Intellectually, I know this is absurd, but emotionally, sometimes the Gremlins in my head win.

Through this distorted lens, I see myself as a Pain Maker. And that feeling is sometimes too much of a burden on my soul. I am someone who has devoted my life to helping others. I can’t stand hurting anyone or being the cause of someone’s pain.

At these times, the voice in my head doesn’t understand why it’s supposed to be a gift or a miracle that I overcame my odds and got out of the place that devastated my family. I think being the lone survivor among the siblings I grew  up with is more of a curse. A very, very lonely curse.

And to pull myself out of this dark make-believe, I recall all of the faces of the people who have become my family (Shira, Shari, Ilanit, Mis Profesoras Favoritas, Moho, Shannon, Asmita, Nat, for example), or those other family members who loved me just like their own (Nicki, Aunt Connie, for instance), and I remember that I am loved.

I remember that I do have worth. I remember that I am connected to the world. It’s just not in the traditional family sense. But screw the “traditional family” model anyhow!


As a young child, I used to get yelled at for feeling too much. My mother would tell me I looked ugly when I cried and to “just stop it!” or she would scream, “I’ll give you something to cry about!” My siblings called me a cry baby.

I was burdened with keeping the secrets of my family hidden — the drug use, abuse, neglect, violence. We subscribed to the family motto of, “what happens in this house, stays in this house.”

I learned to associate feelings, and especially tears, with shame and weakness. Eventually, out of shame, I started locking myself in the bathroom so I could cry and feel all by myself.

Our mother left us when we were 8 years old and didn’t return until we were 10 years old. I cried everywhere and anywhere. My aunt, the one who took us in, would find me in odd places sobbing uncontrollably. When she asked me why I was crying, I would simply reply that I didn’t know.  I just really needed to cry.

Rationally, I understand why my mother did and said these hurtful things. The child inside me who would try to snuggle up with my mother on the couch only to be pushed onto the floor, or the scared kid who cowered with eyes downcast whenever she yelled, or the one who started wetting the bed after she left, does not understand as clearly, however.

I think that to some people, drugs and disconnection may look like a choice for the weak. I would argue that sometimes it’s a choice for the strong too. I didn’t know this as a child, but I learned later that before my mother had me, she was a battered woman who had been viciously raped, abused, and oppressed for over nine years.

We all cope and protect ourselves differently. I hope one day we can start seeing each person fully by seeing who they were, where they came from, and how they got to where they are now. No small child wishes to grow up to be a prostitute, or incarcerated, or a drug addict. It wasn’t my mother’s dream to grow up to be a heroin-and-meth addict.

I used to cope with my scary world by crying secretly in hidden places, or if I did start to cry in front of anyone, I would run off to “fix” myself. I learned that crying was bad and I internalized that it meant I was weak. The problem is that I am a natural crier. I didn’t know it then as a child because I didn’t grow up with those family members, but I actually come from a long line of criers. My dad, my older sister, for example, are two of my greatest heroes and biggest criers I know. Meeting them validated my natural propensity to let out whatever emotion I had through crying.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I cry at corny movies, or even trailers, where it looks like the dolphin or the dog might bite it in the end. I cry at pet stores where it seems like the old, abandoned felines might not get a forever home. I will cry if I just met you, and we connected on a heart level, and then you tell me in great detail about your fallen friend or child or pet. I will cry with you and not because I want to. My soul just mourns when others mourn. On the flip side, it is lifted up with great joy when others feel joy too. I am a natural empath or Betazoid.

I also struggle with perfectionism, fear, failure, and anxiety too, though. I seem to spend more time numbing my feelings lately because I reached maximum capacity. I shutdown now at moments where I would have previously opened up. I turn into what I call, “Aitchbot.” I’m working on trying to permanently eliminate Aitchbot from me, but for now it is very much a part of my core.

The greatest villain in my life has been the shadowy phantom called Shame. It feeds on my lack of self worth and esteem like vampires or zombies do to fresh victims. It threatens my very life at times, or rather, it used to.

Now in my life, I have decided to declare war on the Gremlins hiding out in my heart and mind by shedding light on them, and speaking about my shame, just like Brené Brown, in her book, Daring Greatly, encourages. (I will write more about my sources of shame in another post/s.)


At 19, I thought about taking own life because of perceived failure in school and in my own body. I owned a gun and knowing that I had the ability to take my life, but also rationally knowing that I wanted to live, I spoke up to my best friend. I told her what I was feeling and why. By speaking up, I killed one Gremlin that day. The next day, I went into the recruiting depot and I joined the Navy.

Another time I was near the proverbial ledge was much later in my life in 2011, or what I call,”The Year of Suck.”

Here is a summarized series of the unfortunate events that happened in my life that year within a six-month period:

  • I went on an unpaid leave of absence to finish school
  • My marriage suddenly died
  • My wife fell in love with the man I secretly wished I was
  • I ended up hemorrhaging emotionally and dropping out of school (I’m normally an A/B student and what my chemistry teacher called “a grade grubber.”)
  • My mother suddenly died
  • I accrued debt to have a temporary income in order to live and pay for my mother’s funeral
  • I fake dated a real sociopath
  • My fucking cat suddenly died too

 R.I.P. Oden Growly Kitty

In fact, I sort of went full on batshit crazy for a few months, and even wrote to an online column for advice. They confirmed that I was a giant, hot mess. That may even be an understatement.

During this time, I really wanted to give up on life and myself right then. I didn’t know how to cope with the fact that my marriage had died and I didn’t have the perspective then to see that it had been slowly dying over a long period of time. I came from a broken home and the notion of divorce to me, at that time, was one of life’s biggest failures. It was one of those things I honestly took for granted and never really even envisioned as a possibility.

All my past pain also rushed in to drown me during this period. It was like a game of dominoes in my head with one trigger after another setting off the next trigger. Thankfully, my behavior was so unusually alarming to my loved ones that they stepped in to catch me as I fell into a heap of disaster. They saved me when I couldn’t save myself anymore.

A few months after the bottom fell out of my personal life, my mother was rushed to the hospital the day before Thanksgiving in 2011. My plane from Portland, OR, to Washington, DC, had just landed when I got the news. I crumpled to the ground when my aunt called to tell me.

These next three weeks that unfolded were so traumatic that I’ll save these details for another time. I haven’t yet had it in me to recount it all (i.e., the Walmart Bust, the Inappropriate Kidney Request, the Death Vultures, the Alcoholic Helper, the Butthole Doctors, the Missing Tooth, the Search for Pumpkin Pie, the Final Cuddle etc). 

All the things I had ever feared seemed to come true at once like an incoming trainwreck. I was haunted by my mother’s death and what felt like total abandonment by my spouse for months afterwards. One hurt bled into the other. I kind of became a bloody mess on the inside for a while.

It also didn’t help that my future-ex spouse kept our breakup a secret for almost a year. I would run into former coworkers of hers, or mutual friends of ours, or her old supervisors, and they would ask me how she’s doing. The first time it happened, it was really confusing. I didn’t catch on immediately that they thought we were still together. Eventually, I would give them all a standard, weighted line like, “You should ask her yourself, ” and then run off leaving the person confused. Moments like these continued to happen and each instance shot another needle into the wounds I was trying to heal.

In the end, I asked my ex wife (someone I had loved very deeply and had shared 7 years with) to give me space and to please have the courage to tell people in her own life that we were not together. The wounded part of me threatened that if I ran into one more person from her life that I had to tell, then I was going to lose my shit.

Needless to say, I ran into therapy, swore off romance, and finally opened up about some of the painful baggage buried away. I also started running again; I started dealing with my gender dysphoria; I started embracing the real me and even began going by a name that suited me 100 times better (Aitch).



Things started to slowly stabilize within me, too, as I began the long journey toward healing. Six months into my healing, I then met this beautiful, smart, passionate, and loving creature named Shira.

We had an AMAZING, albeit brief, whirlwind-love affair just between the two of us before WA State placed my emotionally-hurting teen niece in our care. I gave Shira an opportunity to leave, but she wanted to stick around to help raise my niece. Shira is the kindest, most loving person I have ever met. She gave up a lot of things when she decided to stay and parent along with me.

Eventually, we legally adopted my niece because that’s what she repeatedly voiced she had wanted. After 1.5 years of jumping through all the red tape that adoption entails and even moving from DC out west to UT, my niece did a complete 360. Suddenly, she began treating us like captors that were holding her hostage from her “real” family.

The morning she turned 18, she flew off to that “real” family and back to the ones that had caused her so much pain. She moved back to the ones we had saved her from. She moved back to the place that had contributed to so much of my own trauma.

We lost the fight to keep her here with us until she graduated high school but we didn’t give up easily. We wrote her letters, we told her that her expensive technology needed to stay here until she went off to college so that it was safe, we even tried family therapy. In the end, the therapy sessions helped us come to terms with the decision my niece had the legal right to make.

The unexpected parenthood on the coattails of my mother’s death and the end of my first marriage, has been another long, arduous road filled with occasional Dementors, boogeymen, and other Faceless Demons. On the other hand, this experience has also given me the gifts of joy, family, connectedness, growth, and love on a level I had never felt before.

After my niece left, I had the house to myself those first two weeks. It felt like a haunted house or as if my niece had died instead of just moved away. Do all parents feel like this? It also didn’t help that she chose not to be in touch with us and that she eventually unfriended us from Facebook.

All my friends who are also parents tell me this is normal. All the parenting books say this too. Teens grow up and need to assert their independence. I guess the part that hurts most is her pushing us away, while simultaneously pulling her mother closer. The mother who hurt her. This is the same person who stole my identity and got my license suspended when I was 3,000 miles away in the U.S. Navy. This is the person who was incarcerated when I told her that our mother had just literally died in my arms, which she quickly countered, “Why couldn’t she wait for me!?”

Maybe this all feels so much more like rejection and failure because of all that pain I have from my upbringing, and the healing I still have to do, or maybe this is just normal for all parents. I don’t know. But what I do know is that it still feels pretty darn crummy.

Searching for Mr. Courageous.

10 Reasons I Started Shaving Again

Day 17
This year I was over the moon to participate in my first “no shave” Movember challenge. Now that I have been on T for 10 months now, I had really wanted to take it to the next level physically. I really wanted to unleash my mustache-clad hipster man that I know lives inside me.

I wanted the world and myself to finally see me on the outside like I see me. I encountered some unanticipated bumps along Mustache Lane, which is why by the time mid-Movember struck, I made the intentional decision to shave once again.

I’m not calling this defeat or failure. In fact, I’m chalking this up to a personal experiment and an opportunity for personal growth. I ended realizing where I was on this transitional journey and where I had yet to arrive. It also prompted me to finally start the series of steps to get my name and gender marker changed. I even set up my consultation with Dr. Cori Agarwal for the end of December to discuss top surgery. I need to do more right now to help the world see me as I see me and then I’m going to grow one hell of a ‘stache!

Here are my top 10 reasons why I decided to shave once more:

  1. To Pee or not to Pee. Once I started growing a pretty noticeable hairline on my lip and chinny chin chin, I realized I could no longer comfortably use public restrooms. I didn’t feel comfortable using the Men’s Room with multiple stalls and urinals. I was fine using the Men’s Room if it was a single seater, but it turns out those were hard to find. I found myself either holding it (don’t recommend this) or dining at places I already knew had single seaters or unisex bathrooms. Someone really needs to create a “where to pee” app for trans* folks.
  2. I Ain’t No Bearded Lady. It turns out I’m not ok with looking like a fuzzy lesbian. It also hurt more when people saw I was growing a pretty nifty ‘stache and still called me she or her or lady or whatnot. I know I’m supposed to embrace this middle place shit, but I found it much harder to do so with a fuzzy face and a giant, smushed female chest.
  3. Shy Shopper. After a while, my gender and body dysphoria started to get worse. On the one hand, I found I passed a bit more as male; however, when this happened and then I had to show my ID with my birth name (bleh) and birth gender (bleh), then a little part of me died on the inside. I could feel myself cringe with disgust having to show my ID.
  4. Suddenly Sober. Ok, so it’s not the most crucial thing in the world to complain about but I didn’t think about something as simple as ordering a drink in public before I started becoming Mustache Man. Part way into the month when I was digging my pre-pubescent fuzz, I was out to dinner with my lovely partner. I proceeded to order a drink, but then it suddenly hit me that I would need to show my ID. My heart instantly sank and I clammed up. My spouse asked me what was wrong because she saw it on my sullen face. I confessed that I wanted a drink and I wanted to be seen the way I was finally starting to be seen, but that showing my ID would take that all away.
  5. Check Mate. I found that it became increasingly harder to get up and drive into work because of the dread of having to go through the military checkpoint. Another mandatory moment where I needed to show an ID and name and gender that I loathed.
  6. Gimme Me a Break. Two weeks into it, I realized that I was avoiding the break room at work or casually conversing with workmates. Instead, I was a bit curt in passing. I kept my eyes down. I didn’t linger. I just wasn’t really myself.
  7. I’m not in Drag. Having done a brief stint as a one-time-only DC Drag King (woot, woot), I know what it feels like and what it looks like to be in drag. Watching all my brethren grow pretty sick beards or ‘staches in the same amount of time I was growing my peach fuzz made me feel like I was on stage again. It was exciting when I was home alone or in my community or with my friends, but out in public I felt a little embarrassed.
  8. Show’s Over. I started realizing that in conservative Utah, I was drawing more attention than I wanted in certain places.
  9. Microaggressions. In defense of my homeland and workplace here in UT, I will confess that nobody was outwardly or blatantly rude to me. There was an air of increased discomfort and the subtle microaggressions became more and more noticeable to me, however. I’m sure there was even some internalized transphobia at play here too.
  10. Naked No More. Getting naked during this time period was a new level of hell for me.

(I will still be making a donation in honor of Movember to Point5cc. 💜)


10 Reasons I Started Shaving Again

Happy Movember, my fuzzy brothers and sisters!

Hello, everyone! I have decided to participate in Movember this year! I’m also going to be donating to my favorite trans* stealth clothing and activist company,, and I hope you will feel inspired to do so as well. 

If you’d like to support me and this month-long challenge, then feel free to make a small donation in my name (Aitch Muirhead Alexandar) via the point5cc’s online form after Dec. 1st. See the link below. 

Point5cc NSN Challenge 

Video explanation:  
Day 1:  

Day 2:  

Day 3:


Day 4:


Day 5:  

Day 6:


Day 7:


Day 8:


Day 9:

Day 10:


Day 11:


Day 12:


Day 13:

Day 14:


Day 15:

Day 16:


Happy Movember, my fuzzy brothers and sisters!

It’s a boy! 

I just a had T baby! 9 months on HRT has gone by fast. 

Most noticeable changes are: 

  • voice
  • acne
  • body odor
  • no menses (thank the Heavens!)
  • hair line
  • jaw line

Favorite part: 

  • deeper voice
  • building muscle 🙂
  • no more periods!!!
  • educating people
  • sharing with friends/family
  • meeting more trans* people now 
  • my doctor rocks! 

Least favorite part: 

  • still perceived to be a woman or a boyish lesbian  😦 
  • dysphoria is still strong with this one (I still loathe my body. I feel sick at the idea of anyone seeing it.) 
  • anxiety/depression (When will people really see ME?) 
  • bouts of what my spouse calls “Trans* Self-absorbion Syndrome” [TSAS] (Do I have facial hair? Does my voice sound manly? Do I smell? Can you see my acne? Me, me, me!) 

9-months-worth of photos:

(Feline assistant not on T)