The play “Mother Wove the Morning” by feminist Mormon theologian Carol Lynn Pearson is an anthology which tells the stories of women across thousands of years and how they understood and related to the Divine feminine. It has been a powerful work in progressive Mormon circles for decades, and some have compared seeing it as important as going through Temple rituals.
It is incredible to see so many women’s relationship with the Mother, but one thing I thought was missing was the story of a transgender woman. In light of this, I decided to write my own portion which I feel keeps in the spirit of the stories. I call it “Crystal, the Transgender Woman”.
Crystal, the Transgender Woman
I didn’t know I was a woman at first; I only knew I didn’t fit in with the boys. Their games, their jokes, their way of being always felt like an ill-fitting costume I was expected to wear, and one I couldn’t take off. I tried to mold myself into their world, to laugh along, to play the part, but I always felt like an outsider, perpetually out of step, like I’d missed some crucial lesson. Back then, I couldn’t put words to the discomfort. I couldn’t name the quiet ache that followed me, the sense that something essential was missing, that I was out of place in my own life, but deep down, there were always signs—gentle, insistent truths, waiting to be understood. When I finally realized what they meant, the confusion melted into clarity: I was a woman. I had always wanted to be a woman.
The moment I claimed this truth, the world felt more beautiful, but it also felt much more dangerous. Embracing myself was an act of courage that painted a target on my back, because transitioning wasn’t just personal; it was political. I carried my trans anxiety everywhere, because everywhere I looked there were debates about my existence. Women with bodies like mine had their right to exist debated over in schools, town halls, courtrooms, and even presidential debates – but that’s really no different than any other woman, I suppose. All the while, transgender women were asked invasive questions, experienced casual cruelty from strangers, and were even murdered for daring to simply exist. With all this happening around me, I couldn’t help but constantly ask myself, “Will my name and identity be respected?”, “Will I be safe walking home tonight?”, “Will the state of my country one day force me to seek asylum elsewhere?”
Even in the midst of this fear, I found a strength I never knew I had. My transition was not just about surviving; it was about thriving, about loving myself fiercely in a world that so often refused to show any kindness at all. I found community, other women who knew my story, and others who had walked this same road. I was never truly alone. Transitioning was, and continues to be, a great blessing. However, this blessing took time to take hold. I started with wearing the clothes I’d always wanted to wear. Then I moved on to makeup—and like every girl, I had a phase where bright red lipstick and blue eyeliner seemed essential, a phase I thankfully outgrew quickly. Still, I felt discontent, so I began hormone replacement therapy, and I learned to know and love my body for the first time. Each step made me feel more and more like myself.
Throughout my transition, I often thought of the Goddess, the one who understands change better than anyone, because She is the force of transformation, the spirit of becoming. In retrospect I can see Her comforting me when I didn’t understand, and now I can hear her whispering, “Your existence is an act of defiance, but also of love. You are sacred, and your journey is holy.”
Every day, I live with a paradox: the joy of becoming more myself and the dread of being killed for who I am. Despite the danger, I will keep walking this path, holding my head high, because being a woman—being myself, in all my fullness—is worth more than anything I may endure.