A Deal with the Devil

A Deal with the Devil

Right before I transitioned, I made a deal with the devil. Like most deals with the devil I did it knowingly because I thought it was the best thing to do. Like most deals with the devil, it turned out to be more bitter than I expected. And like most deals with the devil it ultimately involved a loss of hope.

Last September I made a journey back home on a special mission. It was a difficult task, and I had my spouse along for support. It was potentially life changing, the hardest thing I'd ever do. At age 56 I was going to tell my parents that I was transgender... that the third member of what my mother always proudly referred to as "my boys" was really a girl, and always had been, always would be.

I expected this to be hard. My parents were getting so old and frail that I doubted their ability to grasp what I told them. But still, I hoped that they would try... I was their child, right?  I'd always done my best to be a good kid... I knew that if it were my child I'd want to know. I'd try to understand. And ultimately I'd do my best to to support them. My parents had raised me, they had helped me form those values, so they would do the same for me, right?

Unfortunately I never found out. Before I told them, I told my oldest brother. I think I was hoping for an ally, for someone to say that whatever I had to do, I should at least be honest. I was hoping for someone to stand by me, to accept me as I was.

Instead I was offered a deal with the devil. Why upset the old folks? Why force them to face a truth that would make them so unhappy? The unspoken message was that they wouldn't be able to deal with something as terrible and disgusting as the truth of who their child was. And in turn my other brother joined in. Knowing who I was would be an unbearable burden of guilt for my parents, something that would literally kill them.

Am I really such a monster? Apparently I am. And such is the power of family that coming from the older brothers I so looked up to as a child, that judgement immediately transported me back to the child who knew, absolutely, dreadfully knew, that the truth would mean I was no longer loved. Like most deals with the devil, it exploited my deepest fears and doubts about myself.

So I made that deal. I told myself it was for the best, that I was being unselfish, putting the comfort of my aged parents first. That was noble, right? To do otherwise would be unbearably selfish, right? And they were so frail, that if I told them, suppose the shock caused a death? Or what if they died before they accepted it and we came to peace?

And yet... As I thought of their character, the values they instilled in me, I kept thinking they'd want to know. I was their child and they loved me. They were proud of me and wanted me to be happy and whole. How could they not want to see me as I was? I kept hoping and telling myself they'd want to support me, that from the perspective of 90+ years, they'd rather have a real, if somewhat unexpected, child who was happy in her life and own skin than a miserable mockery.

But the deal was done. Less than 2 months after I made that deal my mother was dead. Less than 4 months after that, my father had passed. In less than 6 months the devil had taken his due.

While even one of them was alive there was hope. There was the hope that somehow they'd find out.... that they'd think about it and then let me know that it was okay, that they still loved me. In my wildest fantasies they'd even acknowledge that I was more 'right' now than before. Clearly these scenarios were unlikely, but while they were alive they were possible. At least there was hope.

Once they died, that hope was lost. I suppose it shouldn't matter. I suppose I should continue to tell myself that I chose correctly, that it was a good cause. And yet... it feels wrong. They never had the chance to give me that most important piece of love and support. They never had the chance to be there when I needed them most. Somehow I can't believe they would think that was the right choice.

I was sold that choice, urged to make that deal with the devil by those I trusted. When I was small I looked up to them so, and on some level I suppose that feeling never goes away. And yet, when I needed them, they let me down. They haven't been there for me at all, nor have they even tried to show understanding or acceptance. In short, they behaved exactly as my childhood self had feared... "if anyone ever knows, they won't love you anymore." It's hard to describe the absolute desolation that thought brings a child, even the child that still lives inside the adult.

Those old fears made me complicit in my own damnation. They conspired to steal my hope. Like most deals with the devil. And I had chosen to go along and trade hope away for nothing. Like most deals with the devil.

---

In memoriam: 

Howard Ceder, July 20, 1921 - March 17, 2013

Eunice Ceder, August 27, 1922 - November 22, 2012

I love you both and I hope you're at peace. 

But I wish I knew that you still  loved me. 

For who I really am.

From Transition to Traveller

I used to wonder

A long time ago, back in the day, I used to wonder. I used to wonder if it would feel weird to live as a woman. I used to wonder if I would even be able to adapt, if it would be too strange, if it was even possible to make that change. Now just four months after transition, I have the answer. 

That answer would surpise my old self, I think, but it also would have reassured him. The answer, of course, is that it doesn't feel weird or strange or unnatural all. It's different, to be sure, and it still takes thinking about sometimes, but it's not strange. In fact, it's like finally being home after so many years away - the reaction that the differences cause is more, "oh, yes, that's the way it should be... I don't have to worry about that anymore."

Trial by Travel

I think a good example, and maybe the most surprising, is travel. Only a month after I transitioned I found myself traveling by air, renting cars, staying in hotels, all things that not so long ago seemed impossible. The TSA does not have the most trans-friendly reputation, and the processes of air travel tend to put one's background and credentials under intense scrutiny. Indeed, I know of people who otherwise live as female who travel as males to avoid that experience. In my case, since my documentation had been changed, that wasn't an option.

So travelling as a woman should have made me feel uncomfortable. Except it didn't. Even when I had to explain my situation to the rental car clerk, it was no problem. (When I told him I'd changed genders, he asked, quite innocently, 'Wow, how long did that take?' and I answered, '9 months or 50 years, depending on how you look at it.')

Across borders

However, domestic travel is a piece of cake compared to international travel. Once you get through the first screening for a domestic flight, you're done. Crossing borders involves multiple passport checks just to get on the plane and then one has to pass through customs and immigration. In each direction. If a change of identity and gender was going to be problem, it should be on international travel.

So when the time came, just 4 months after transition, to fly to Japan on business, I was a little bit nervous. Yes, I was prepared. I had my documentation in order. I had a new passport, with the proper name and gender designation, and I had my surgeon's blessing to fly only two months after surgery. I had my nurse recommended support knee highs. I even had prescription strength anti-diarrhea meds, just in case. (I know, I know, Japan isn't a problem, but it was a recommendation from corporate, so I went along.)

Caught by the TSA

So when I hit my first check point at Chicago I whipped out my shiny new passport. The agent looked at it, looked at me, looked at it again... then he looked up and said, "Naomi? Have you ever traveled with this passport before?" My heart skipped a beat... Oh my god... a problem already?!?! 

I fought to keep my composure and said, "No, I haven't."

He started to grin and said, "Well, you need to sign it!" and handed over his pen.

As I was apologizing and thanking him, he assumed that sort of half-patronizing/half-flirty tone (women will know what I mean) and said, "no problem, ma'am, it just shows I'm doing my job."  Hmmmm. 

At home abroad

And to be honest, that was the last time I really worried about it. I just flashed my newly signed passport when needed, smiled, and carried on. I met Japanese colleagues who had known me as Vern and we picked up as if nothing had happened. I went to dinner (by myself and with others), I shopped, I had business meetings. And it was all fine. In fact, it was better than fine. I felt more relaxed and able to enjoy traveling than I ever had before. Even in Japan, I was home. 

Now, make no mistake, I'm not that confident in my appearance, nor in my voice, nor in my general ability to "pass". I'm not petit, I don't dress very girly, my accessory collection is primitive, I don't wear much makeup, and by the end of a long day, my hair is positively a fright. But none of that is that big a deal. The big deal is that I'm me, even half way around the world. 

I wish I could tell that to my old self. It would be nice to reassure him, to tell him not to worry, that it will be okay. Most of all, to assure him that even while traveling being who you really are is coming home.

 

Squinting into the rising sun at Kyoto.

Costs

Costs

I know that in these posts I have portrayed my progress as the successful, almost triumphant, struggle to embrace who I really am. That is deliberate - I'm using this story to make sense of my journey and I'm choosing to see myself as a heroine rather than a victim. I also happen to think the world needs more trangender heroines and fewer victims - the world makes us victims all too frequently as it is, and sometimes we trans folk get caught up in that.

However, it would be dishonest not to acknowledge that there are costs to the path I've taken. Many people have stood by me, by far more than I'd dared hope, and I treasure them all. But some have been lost - the friends that have stayed conspicuously silent or quietly unfriended me, the many former students I will never talk to again, and the events where I will no longer be welcome. 

Readers of my posts may also have noticed that I don't mention family much at all, other than a couple of references to my spouse, whose love and support are so central a part of my transition. That's partly to respect and protect their privacy, since they didn't choose to be involved in this. (Of course, neither did I, but I did choose to confront it.)

The other reason I don't mention family is because they, too, are among the "costs". With only one exception, they prefer not to speak of or acknowledge my "difficult situation" (as one put it). It's as if I've been put under a cone of silence - I have no idea which of them has been told, what they think, or anything. When I went in for surgery last month, I got no messages of support from them. I suspect that in general they are hoping if they ignore me and my situation persistently enough it will just go away.

And they're right. Many people like me don't get acceptance and support from family and are devastated. In my case, we've grown apart over the years (my fault probably more than theirs), so while it is a loss, it's one I can bear. I will continue to walk my path, and even to be happy, with or without them. And yes, I will eventually just go away, because I don't care to have contact with people who refuse to accept me as I am. I am okay with that.

I do find it ironic that I've received so much support and even love from friends, coworkers, and even casual acquaintances, only to have family be the ones who can't accept me. But to be honest, I had always expected as much. I've discovered over the past year that I'm pretty good at guessing people's reactions, particularly those I know well. And one reason I waited so long to embark on the path to transition is that I was convinced my family wouldn't accept it. And it turns out I was right. 

Perhaps over time some of those I've lost will come around. If that happens, I'll welcome them, but at the moment it seems unlikely.

Still, this post is most definitely not a plea for sympathy. I'm still the heroine and my story is an overwhelmingly happy one. I am more than okay with the costs - I feel that I've gotten off so much easier than many trans people I know. But I also don't want to pretend that it's possible to win them all. No one wins them all, and I'm no exception. 

 

Facial Surgery - Notes from the other side

As I mentioned a little over two weeks ago, I went in for facial femiinization surgery (FFS) on December 13. I promised a post from the other side, and here it is. 

Disclaimer - boring surgery stuff ahead

This post is for anyone who is interested in what FFS was actually like. As is my usual practice, I won't name names (not even of my surgeon) but if you want more specific information I'll be happy to talk about things like that privately. On the other hand, if you're not interested in what it takes to have your face redone, feel free to bail out at any time.

What is "the works"?

The first question is what exactly did I have done? While I didn't have the world's most masculine face, I did end up getting pretty much everything done, "the works" as you might put it. And I realize that for those who haven't been there "everything" isn't a good answer. NOTE: this is NOT an attempt to use technical terms. If you want the technical terms for all of these procedures consult with a more complete FFS reference or surgeon.

Let's just start at the top of my head: 

• hairline advancement - that means my scalp was partly detached, pulled/stretched forward, and stuck back down, advancing my hairline by about one inch. 
• forehead lift - my forehead was pulled up, tightening it and pulling out the wrinkles. This was really more for rejuvenation than feminization
• brow reduction - the ridges over my  eyebrows were ground down to remove the prominence that males have there
• eyebrow lift - my eyebrows were slightly lifted
• under eye skin peel - the skin right under my eyes was about 70% removed by a chemical peel, to make it grow back smoother. Again a rejuvenation thing.
• cheek implants - soft plastic implants were put in each cheek to make them project forward, as opposed to the more hollowed male look that I had
• nose work - my nose was reduced slightly, the "bump" was taken out, and my deviated septum was repaired. I can already breath better than I ever have in my life
• fat grafts - fat removed from around my navel was centrifuged and re-injected at my temples, and around my upper lip, for more youthful and feminine fullness.
• jaw muscle reduction - the muscles at my jaws which tend to give a squarer, more masculine appearance, were cut down
• jaw angle and projection reduction - basically my jaw was ground down to both project less and be less square
• tracheal shave - my "adam's apple" bump was reduced
• neck lift - my neck skin was pulled and tightened to get rid of the "turkey neck" effect that is both aging and a bit masculinizing.

So that's "everthing" pretty much. It means that almost every part of my face was disrupted in one way or another. A fair amount of this work was done from the inside, so the number of incisions you might see is not as great as you might think - I have an incision at my hairline, pretty much all the way around each ear, under my nose and under my chin.

So how does all of this come about?

The process starts with consultation with the surgeon and their suggestion of what shoud/might be done and how much it might cost. Not surprisingly, the surgeon will have his opinion and you'll have yours on both points. Coming together on what willl be done or not done and why is the biggest issue you have work out - feel free to get other opinions, ask questions, and even argue with the surgeon. I did a fair amount of soul searching in deciding whether I wanted to do everything or not. And some of it is more for youthful appearance than anything else - I was okay with that (as I've mentioned). I even paid for someone knowledgable to use photoshop to simulate what each procedure might do for me.

Once that's worked out, and you have reserved a date (I decided to save up my time off from work and do it during the slow time at the end of the year), there is a ton of administrivia to take care of - paying (let's just say my credit cards ended up with a truly amazing amount of reward points), getting medical clearance, laying in needed supplies (including a few gross of q-tips and gallons of hydrogen peroxide), signing what seems like a hundred pages of releases, arranging post-op care, etc. 

Day of Surgery

There were a few pre-surgery restrictions, like stopping vitamins, supplements and hormones, but nothing much else except for the final two - a head to foot shower with antibactierial soap (yep, good old yellow Dial) and NOTHING to eat or drink starting at midnight before surgery. And nothing means NOTHING, not even a sip of water.

I actually managed to get a little of sleep before we got up to get to the surgeon's at 6 am. People tend to assume, since this was surgery, that it would be in a hospital, but a lot of surgeons have their own facilities for surgery. Hospitals are expensive and full of sick people and bacteria, so they're not always the first choice for elective surgery. 

From that point things moved pretty quickly - I changed out of my jammies (yes, I wore jammies to surgery) and into a gown and associated paraphenalia. An IV drip was inserted, a few final pictures were taken after the surgeon used a marker to decorate my face, I got on the table, and... I woke up about 12 hours later in a tiny recovery area. (Clearly there must have been something in that IV.) And some stupid heartrate monitor was driving me mad with it's continual beeping... (I did not fully appreciate at the time what it would have meant if it hadn't been continually beeping!)

After a couple of hours I was "recovered" enough to be dressed, wheeled to the door, and to be helped into the caregiver's car for the drive home.

Here's where accounts diverge. What I recall is walking slowly but steadily and being coherent enough to give the caregiver turn by turn directions from the interstate (she did have written directions as well, but it was dark) to our house. What my wife remembers is that when we arrived, she looked out the door to see a heavily bandaged figure who couldn't figure out how to open a car door, mumbled unintelligibly, and who on standing immediately drooled on her own shoes. I'm sticking with my version, thank  you very much.

How long does it take to heal?

For the first three days, I was propped up in bed and fed pudding and vicodin, punctuated by occasionally getting up to walk a lap around the apartment. Then I got the main dressings removed and took a wonderful, but exhausting, shower. Painkillers continued to be my friends for most of the first 10 days, but things steadily progressed, and by two weeks after the surgery I was starting to feel more normal. Sure, I still got exhausted easily, but I was starting to sleep normally and had said good-bye to the nasty paranoid dreams vicodin gives me. 

So right now, that's about where I am. I have to massage the swollen areas and scars for an hour a day, and wear a supporting head "garment" for 18 hours a day, but I'm starting to feel better. Taking a shower no longer exhausts me. Sensation is returning to some areas, like my forehead, but others, like the top of my head and under my chin remain pretty numb. I'm told that things are going well, and I expect to be working in a few days and mostly of back to normal in a few more weeks. 

The swelling will take months to fully go away and it will also take that long to get sensation back everywhere, so full recovery will be an ongoing project in 2013, but one that I think will be worth it.

Are there pictures?

In case you're wondering, yes, I have been taking pictures. And no, I'm not sharing them now. I'll hold them until I can put together a more triumphal procession than I can now. Even my tolerance for being a work in progress has limits!

Are you happy? 

So am I happy? It's still a bit early for wild celebration. It's also surprisingly hard (and demoralizing) to see yourself so bruised and swollen. The fat grafts have left my upper lip way too thick, the swelling has given a bit of a snub nose, and so on. But all of those things are improving, as the surgeon promised. So things are getting better every day as I continue to heal.

For a while there I was looking in the mirror, searching in vain for some sign of someone I recognized. That has all been more than a bit scary... but today I looked in the mirror more closely and caught a glimpse of someone... it was the first time I'd seen her, but there could be no mistake...

It was me. 

Facial Surgery

A lot has happened over the past 10 months. I started seeing a therapist, started hormones, came out to friends and family, transitioned at work, and mostly traversed the legal hurdles of changing my name. I braved air travel and the TSA, hotels, car rentals, even Las Vegas, with my new identity and escaped unscathed. Some of those milestones were scary, some of them caused me to lie awake in bed worrying about how I would get through them, but in the end, none of them was as hard as I'd feared. Particularly transitioning at work, which absorbed hours of stewing and fretting, was so much more positive than I'd ever dreamed it might be.

So now I'm charging full speed towards a different milestone - facial feminization surgery. In just under 36 hours I'll be in surgery to have almost every aspect of my face remodeled. I'm excited, scared, doubtful, certain, eager and hesitant.

FFS, as it's called, is a controversial subject. Not having it says that you're confident and comforatble in the image you project amd that you don't care about society's judgments on feminine appearance. Or perhaps it says that you are naturally feminine in appearance or that you don't have or care to spend the astromomical  sums a thorough face remodeling requires.

On the other hand, having FFS may say that you are vain, that you are a slave to conventional views of feminity, or that you have delusions that changing your face will fix your life. Or it may say that you want to blend in, be invisible, or  just  have the luxury of not being read the first 30 seconds someone sees you.

I like to think in my case it means that after all of this time I will be able to look in the mirror and see someone who matches my internal view of myself just a bit more. It should make me appear younger, and I happen to like that. It seems to me that it will go a tiny way towards giving me back a few of those many years of seeing someone else in the mirror.

I'm aware that this will come at a fairly high price. It's costly, it's time consuming and a burden on those around me. It's major surgery - almost every part of my face and the underlying tissues, from the hairline to the base of the neck will be sliced, diced, ground down, built up, or otherwise disrupted. It will be painful and the recovery will be measured in weeks and months. I'm aware of all of this and in some ways I dread it. 

When it's done, I have no illusions that I'll be, in the words of my surgeon, "stunning". Nor will all my problems go away, nor will a lifetime on the wrong side of the gender tracks be erased. But if I can look in the mirror and sometimes see a bit more the person I've always been inside, if it makes me feel a bit more confident and a bit more relaxed out in the world, above all if I look a bit more like ME, then I think it will be worth it. 

So the bottom line is that I'm determined to go forward. From Thursday on I'll be out of touch for a little while... wish me luck - I'll see you on the other side.

Why I left the dog obedience world

I guess this is partly a tribute to Molly, partly a farewell, and partly a love letter to obedience teams. And if anyone happens to care, it's an explanation of why I left the sport of dog obedience. If none of those interest you, then you probably had better find something else to read.

Some of you know that I (or that guy named Vern, anyway) was privileged to have Molly, the smartest dog in school. With Molly I spent almost a decade involved in obedience competitions, learning how to train and show, writing a column in Front and Finish called "Sanity Check", and doing a bit of judging. 

And then I left.

I stopped showing when I lost Molly. She was one of the closest and wisest friends I've had, of any species, and when she died of cancer in 2011, I didn't really have much desire to train or show. Molly was the wellspring of my obedience carreer - it was part of our bond, a common language that we shared, the thing that made us, both as a team and even individually, somewhat special among many that knew us. Molly grew from that training into a poised, calm dog of the world, meeting a stream of students, teachers and visitors in my office at school every day. And she met them not only with dignity and poise, but she also made it clear the world that she was a trained dog, dammit, and she answered to me alone. I often wished that some of those top trainers who sneered at us when we were having a bad day in the ring (and I do mean sneered, literally) could have seen her in action during one of her days at work. 

About that same time I'd moved to a new job and was putting in 10 hour days, so in addition to lacking motivation to train and compete with Aeryn (the young dog in the house) it was harder to find the time. It may even have been that Aeryn promised to be so much better in the ring than Molly ever was - that wasn't so hard to take while Molly was alive, but once she was gone, in the back of my mind it felt almost disloyal to train Aeryn to surpass Molly's admittedly checkered obedience career. 

I continued to judge for a while, in spite of the heavier work schedule, because I honestly enjoyed judging, seeing the same sort of bond that Molly and I had being developed by other teams. 

Sure, judging had it's downsides - I had to get up early on weekend mornings and wear a tie. I had to be there, on my feet, basically working the entire time. But I loved to watch the teams and I had the best seat (well, "stand") in the house. I could see the good, the bad, and the ugly, from the little tricks of the experts to the shaking hands of a first timer.

I loved the less skilled teams most, and the first timers. The people who were clearly out of their comfort zone competing (in a dog show for heaven's sake!), with dogs that maybe had a few "issues". Those handlers who didn't quite know how to get the best out of their dogs and the dogs who didn't quite know how to please their suddenly nervous handlers. There they were, both sides trying their hardest, and many times it was out of love. I never was an easy scorer, but man, did I do whatever I could to help those teams legitimately qualify.

But last summer, I resigned my judging licenses. 

Of course, my decision to transition from male to female was behind that. The rest of this blog is devoted to that process, so I won't belabor it here. It was a huge decision, with joys and rewards, as well as risks and costs, and I'm glad I did it.

But the reason I left obedience was pretty simple - I didn't trust the sport to accept me. 

I didn't trust the sport of obedience to accept me as a transgender woman mainly because I didn't believe that the sport had really accepted me as a man. In my early years in obedience, outwardly a male in a sport predominately female, I was less than warmly received. In fact, I can remember many times when many of the people at a trial actively avoided speaking or even making eye-contact with me, although they would be quite willing to chat with my wife. She figured it must be because I didn't look "needy" enough for people to go out their way to talk to. Maybe I just wasn't outgoing and friendly enough.

But to me, as a transgender persion, it seemed like one more case of being on the outside looking in, caught again on the wrong side of the gender divide. Maybe that perception wasn't true. I do know that once I started writing for Front and Finish and particularly after I became a judge people became much, much friendlier, and I liked that. 

But I also never escaped the feeling that acceptance came not because of anything about me, but mainly because I was now useful. And as I started transition I didn't want to go back to being the ousider again. I didn't want to have people staring at me, not making eye contact, not being willing to talk to me, all the rest. 

Maybe that wasn't really a risk. Certainly it hasn't been a problem at the tech events I've participated in. Judges are in demand enough that presumably even a transgender judge might get an assignment here or there, right? And no one would be foolish enough to insult or ignore the judge, right? And maybe some of the people I'd met over the years would even be sort of nice about it, right? Probably. But I just didn't feel confident enough to risk it. 

It's kind of a conservative crowd, and while I can think of many exceptions, I can also think of too many I knew who wouldn't be able to accept me at all. Besides, my new voice isn't as powerful as Vern's was - I was afraid I'd just heel all of those ladies who warned me they were hard of hearing right into the wall. More to the point, my new self wasn't (isn't) self-confident enough yet to stand in the middle of the ring and be watched all day. Maybe someday she will be.

So that's the story. A few people I knew from the dog world have reached out to me on my transition, and they have been postiive and supportive (thanks!). They've even suggested I should come back to judging and showing, and I have to admit it I thought about it. But I don't think so, at least for now.

To all of those obedience teams out there (particularly you green, new, struggling ones) I wish you joy and success, and that you and your dog will cherish and grow that relationship for as long as you can.

Cheers,

Naomi

Naomi now lives with her spouse and two Aussies, Riker, who was Molly's dutiful flunky for many years, and Aeryn, who in spite of her relative youth and lack of embarrassing obedience performances still managed to make an occasional precocious appearance in "Sanity Check" back in the day.

The Luckiest Girl in the World

The eventful first week of transition has passed. After a morning of sitting on a very hard courtroom bench listening to people wrangle about rent disputes, my name change became legal. Everyone at my company was informed (and thank god, educated) about my being trans. I got my hair styled and my nails done professionally for the first time in my life. I walked back into work as Naomi with my head held high and it was fine. I braved a visit to the DMV and ended up with a new drivers licence with the desired new name and gender. I even went to my first Python meetup as Naomi.

So much was squeezed into this past week that it's starting to blur. This was the time that I had feared all of these years. This was to be a change so scary that I referred to it as "leaping off the cliff". I honestly didn't know how I was going to get through it all - standing before a judge to change my name, telling the people I cared most about at work, and even walking back into the building after everyone knew the truth. These were the things that I had struggled with for years... the kinds of fears that had held me back for ages. 

The reality turned out to be far different than I had imagined, in many ways. I went to my name change hearing with extra documentation, mentally preparing arguments to counter a conservative judge's reluctance. In fact, he sized me up, asked the formulaic questions, and then smiled and congratulated me as he signed the decree. I had thought that my fellow managers might be a tough audience, but they listened intently, politely, and sympathetically, and were instantly supportive. 

I had imagined that telling my team might be easier. Instead it was the hardest of all, taking just about all I had. This wasn't their fault, mind you - they also were supportive, sending me messages of support that very night.

And so it went. Where I had feared rejection, I received a welcome. There were hugs instead of scowls, sincere messages of support instead of haughty silence. In other words, they did what I had feared would never happen - they saw me as I was and welcomed me back. 

There were some negatives during this week of transition, some people being ominously silent or even openly unsupportive, but they were few and they didn't come from the people I work with every day.

Where it really counted, when I really needed them, the people around me came through magnificently, in a manner I had never dared hope for. I won't forget that. And no matter what else happens, thanks to them I count myself the luckiest girl in the world.