It was a very long working day, not unusual for the most part. long lectures and other academic commitments drained me. But I was able to find some time for myself. It was essential to find some part of the day just for myself, be it going on a solitary walk around the campus or enjoying a cup of coffee on the terrace at sunset. More than leisure, these acts were essential for my self-preservation.

That particular day, I found myself in a dance room with mirrors from the ceiling to the floor. I usually love dancing around the room, looking at my reflection. The movements and sounds make me feel liberated and alive – they help me ground myself. But, that day, I felt highly uneasy seeing my reflection(s).

I kept glancing back and forth between my reflection and my physical body. These visions seemed oddly different from my perceived understanding of my body and self. At one point, my reflection started haunting me. I felt uneasy looking at the mirror. It was as if a stranger was staring back at me. I became unrecognizable to myself. My face and body suddenly did not make sense to me. I stared back at this stranger. I looked into their eyes. Their eyes became a mirror that showed a version of me that I did not want to see. I felt way more masculine than I ever did. That disturbed me. An overwhelming sense of gender dysphoria consumed me.

I questioned my gender performance. I became unsure of my queer-trans identity that is often expressed and experienced through these expressions. I felt like I betrayed myself. I thought, “How do I claim to be trans-femme if I looked like this?” And that bothered me. Because I know that gender identity and expression are different things, and the performance of one does not have to reflect the other. But even then, a tiny part of me lost hope. And I couldn’t help but think it was the space I was in that caused this rupture.

For the first time in the 4 months after moving to this space, I realized how much the rigid heteronormative gender-binary constitution of it had affected me. Moving out of a safe queer-friendly environment affected me in more ways than I thought it would. While, I knew it would challenge my queer expressions, this was beginning to feel like more than a challenge. The lack of systemic support and mechanisms to address queer grievances and avenues to experience queer joy and solidarity was debilitating not just to my expressions but also to my sheer existence.

I remember writing in my notes: What does it mean to be trans? Am I not trans enough? Why do I have to perform to be perceived? Why can’t my idea of self be easily communicated to others? Why do I have to put myself through so much pain just to be understood as how I understand myself? How can a space have so much control over my self and body?

I was not able to give myself answers that day. Honestly, I still am not able to. Even as you are reading this, I can assure you that I have no concrete answers. But I find it imperative to talk and write about them.

Writing this piece is part of the process of answering those questions. Or at least an attempt at getting me to be in a process, on a journey, to find answers. There may be no real answers, and the search for the same can go on forever. Regardless, it is essential for me to be in this journey, to be in motion, not hold myself stationary, aligning to a status quo. All of the expressions, movements, writing, and thinking are part of my journey that traces back to a larger journey of a queer collective finding itself.

It pains me to see that the queers in this aforementioned space have been silenced over and over. We have been subject to surveillance, to a gaze that does not look at us as equals, but with disgust and suspicion. I have often felt my body being constantly scrutinized by eyes and stares that don’t welcome my presence in their space. My queer existence invariably becomes othered. In such instances, I am lost in the conflict between wanting to become invisible, for my queerness to be tucked away and not be questioned, and being hyper-visible to make my mere existence challenge the established and much-normalized notions of heteronormativity and gender binary. The constant pushing and pulling of myself, body and mind, is draining and exhausting. And doing all of this on my own would have been debilitating. Fortunately, I was never entirely alone.

In the last 4 months, I have made acquaintances and friends, queers and allies. They helped me learn and unlearn about myself and the space. They held me close when I was falling apart. My friends, both old and new, constantly reminded me about the importance of care. It is not an unknown fact that queers and their allies have always come together in communities that are built on the ideals of care and solidarity. For me, finding this community is a matter of self-preservation. The sense of a solidarity group based on caring allows me to sustain myself in an otherwise hostile space. However, these communities are also political, as they challenge the established systems through their visible performances.

My hopes for the future are no-frills. I want to heal and be comfortable in my body. I want to be with my friends and queer comrades as we navigate the complexities of our life in the space to sustain and rebel in ways, big and small, to make sure the space becomes safe and supportive for all of us, and for our queer peers yet to come. Because, in the end, the dream is not a space where we sustain or preserve ourselves but one where we celebrate each other and thrive together.

A note for the readers:

I have chosen not to name the space/institution because doing so would afford more power to the said space, in my opinion. I wanted to provide visibility to my queer experiences and not the space. Those who know me will know the space I am talking about. And those who don’t, I hope you wouldn’t have to encounter it.