A Letter to My Body

By , December 10, 2013 12:30 pm

Note: This post was written in response to a writing prompt given to me by a friend, in which she encouraged me to explain to my body why it’s about to undergo major surgery. The post itself is scheduled to publish during my upcoming gender reassignment surgery. The actual surgery, that is; when this post goes live I should (fingers crossed) be under general anesthesia, getting myself all vagified. That might be going a little overboard, but I couldn’t resist the metaphor.

Dearest, singular, unique, self. My body.

Know that what’s coming is going to be hard. For that, I am deeply and eternally sorry. There will be discomfort, there will be pain, there will be an unreasonable amount of piss and shit, there will be stitches and sutures and drugs and aches and pains and moans and tears. There will be moments when you wish I hadn’t done this to you, when I will wish I hadn’t done this to you, when family and friend are annoying and no position feels comfortable and  food sounds disgusting and Netflix has been watched in its entirety and the world is stupid and dumb and should just go away and oh my god how can I possibly need to dilate again. If it could be different, if I could be different, if you could be different, know that I wouldn’t do this to you. I wouldn’t do this unless I was so fundamentally sure it was right.

I am fundamentally sure this is right.

Know that what’s coming is going to be wonderful. For that, I am as eager as anything I have ever desired or anticipated. There will be nerve connections, and healing, and softening, and pinkening, and more. There will be comfort. There will be sensation and pressure and friction and touch. There will be moments when you wish I had done this to you years ago, decades ago, a lifetime ago, when we go to the beach or wear a tight skirt or lounge around in yoga pants and laugh at how silly it was to have a bulge where no bulge was really needed. Peeing sitting down will be a hassle, I know, but think about the fun we’re going to have, of showers and clothing and bending and twisting and all of the experiences and all of the sensations and all of the all of it!

I have tried to prepare you as best I could, but know that I am sorry for where I have fallen short, am falling short, will fall short. For the mornings (many mornings) (almost all of the mornings) where I stayed in bed instead of exercising and doing yoga. For the times when I’ll hate how you feel. For not letting you be what you are, what you were, what you’re not going to be for much longer.

I hope that – more often than not – it will feel like we are on this journey together. That we are collaborators and not enemies. That I want you and love you and need you, more now than I ever have before. That you can find peace in me finding peace in you. That everything goes well and we wake up on the other side without too much pain. That I will be able to look back and think my fear was scarier than the going through with it. That it is as worth it as I think it will be.

That it is done, and calm, and, and right.

With as much love as I can possibly give, and with apologies for moments when that love still isn’t as much as I would like it to be,


4 Responses to “A Letter to My Body”

  1. Courtie Mac says:

    I love you, Becca, and I am so psyched for you and your body! You don’t look like you’ve missed a day of yoga in your life, lady. Much, much love and thanks for sharing this with us. xoxoox

  2. ollie says:

    This was so moving. Best wishes to you for your surgery and recovery :-)

  3. Rebecca says:

    Thanks for all the support!

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