For generations, “Mother Wove the Morning” by Carol Lynn Pearson had been held as a powerful story which tells of women’s relationship with the Divine Feminine. 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.
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.