They Changed My Life
On trans visibility, friendship, and the importance of documentation
A month before I got top surgery, a photographer I had long admired posted that they were coming to Austin during Memorial Day weekend and were looking to book portrait sessions. A few weeks prior, I had gotten my portrait taken by someone else who, while totally kind, I didn’t really connect with. There was an awkwardness to the session, and I felt stiff the whole time. I was getting top surgery in a few weeks, so I spent the morning putting trans tape on and picking out an outfit out of anxiety and pressure. I was never really able to ground into myself that day, and the photos reflected that. I got the images back, and they were fine. But I didn’t see myself in them.
Even though I knew I’d be fresh into top surgery recovery when
was in town, I wanted to document the transition. I knew it would be even more special to be photographed by a queer, nonbinary person who had photographed artists I really admire. Joy’s Embodied Portrait Session offering was so transformative and connecting, and it’s something I can’t recommend enough. However, what I want to emphasize is what it means to be trans, photographed by another trans person, and how an unexpected friendship changed my life.I opened my photos the night before Christmas Eve–right after my partner and I had a particularly difficult conversation with their parents in rural east Texas about the violence possible for trans people. We were both shaken by it and left the conversation needing to dissociate from it. Around 1 A.M. that night, I was doing some sleepy phone scrolling and opened my email app to find a subject line: ‘YOU CHANGED MY LIFE’ and a link to my long-awaited photos.
I remember the day we did our session so clearly. We met for an early morning session on the day of Joy’s flight. I had just gotten back from a funeral, and I was only three weeks into recovery–still tender and moving slowly. I couldn’t lift my arms, but I wanted my hair to look perfect, so I contorted my body to reach my curling wand to the back of my head. Joy walked around my apartment, taking note of light and details, being patient as I navigated pain and swelling. I had my most challenging day of recovery a few days before–having a sensory meltdown because of the compression vest, travel, and elevated sleeping.
After my hair was done and my final outfit chosen, Joy led me in a meditation to help me ground into myself. We started by taking photos in my apartment so we could get comfortable with each other and I could get familiar with the feeling of being photographed. We left and shot at a couple of other locations, stopping for a coffee and ending in a beautiful, open field now being developed in East Austin.
Months have passed and Joy has become one of my closest friends–a privilege I know isn’t afforded in most client/creator relationships. We talk often of our experience as trans nonbinary people, and I have found immense comfort in having a close friend who experiences gender very similarly to me. I told them to take their time with editing and sending the photos, as there was something really special about having space and time between being freshly operated on and deep into healing. The time allowed me to reflect on how I–and my body–had transformed.
I opened the gallery of photos and was greeted with images of my fresh scars being tenderly held by my soft hands I had spent the night before adorning with fruit, vegetable, and flower nail stickers. I continued to scroll and saw photos of myself looking strong, powerful, and sexy. My button-down shirt just slightly open, exposing my trans body to the plant nursery we shot in. In another, my arms barely raised to a 45° angle because I wasn’t allowed to bring them over my head during recovery. I am soaking in the sun on a hot, sweaty Texas summer day.
I am now almost 8 months post-top surgery. In the email Joy sent along with the photos, they named the fact that there may be unfamiliar angles of myself I am not used to seeing. They are right. Since the photos were taken, my body has changed so much. I have gained weight, my scars have thickened, and I have gotten a couple of new tattoos.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be trans, and what it means to be “visibly trans” as we move into deeper discrimination, violence, and criminalization of trans people. I know that there are people, especially Black, brown, and Indigenous people, who will face much more violence in the coming months and years if they have not already. Amidst my many privileges, I receive heinous comments on Instagram about how I belong in a psychiatric institution, deserve to die, and should be harmed just because I have been vocal and visible about top surgery. It made me scared to share these photos at all.
But in the same breath, I’ve witnessed so much trans joy. I watched multiple friends begin to pursue, get, and recover from top surgery. I helped pay for a friend’s Airbnb since they had to travel to receive care. I witnessed a friend step into a care role during recovery. I recorded a trans tape tutorial with my trans partner for a friend who was trying it out. I gave books about top surgery to friends interested in pursuing it. I’ve received care and check-ins from trans friends, even months after my surgery. I’ve commiserated with friends about all the feelings that come with every stage of top surgery—the beauty of shared knowledge.
I have thought long and hard about what it means to share these photos, even amongst fear. What I know to be true is that it’s been because of other trans people, especially other trans nonbinary people, I’ve learned the importance of loving ourselves out loud. I’ve learned about what it means to love each other out loud.
I think a lot about documentation and how essential it is. It’s one of the reasons I’m a writer. I believe deeply in history taking, acknowledging our lineages, and continuing to tell our stories for those who come next. So many stories have been lost due to violence, forced silence, or fear.
Joy documented me in this vulnerable moment. While my body may change, my scars may fade, and hopefully, I will have the privilege to continue to age–I will always know exactly what I looked like at that moment in time. I will always be able to look back at these photos and reflect on the care I received. I will bask in the gratitude of top surgery giving me access to the gender experience that allows me to move through the world with more internal ease. That internal ease gives me more capacity to give. Documenting this moment will always remind me of where I was, where I came from, and those who helped me reach that very moment.
They really did change my life. They as in Joy. They as in community. They as in my queer community. They as in my trans ancestors. They as in my pronouns. They change my life. All of them.
Talk soon,
P.S. It is
’s birthday today. Go send them some love.
I LOVED WHEN YOU SAID, "They really did change my life. They as in Joy. They as in community. They as in my queer community. They as in my trans ancestors. They as in my pronouns. They change my life. All of them." This is a beautiful piece. I'm so happy to have read it and that you shared these photos and your experience.
I feel so honoured to have seen these images. Thank you for sharing them, Sam. Too often, it feels like the internet isn't worthy of this kind of heartfelt sharing, and I want to stand on my chair and cheer for you 💕