I Spent 40 Years Praying Away the Trans Girl God Gave a Voice

I Spent 40 Years Praying Away the Trans Girl God Gave a Voice

It’s taking me a little while to wrap my head around the last few days and the weird turn of events my life has taken.

I told my kids.

My wife has known my truth for a long time, but now my kids know too.

And they’re supportive.

Not just I guess we’re okay with this supportive.

They’re behind me. They’re behind me no matter what direction I end up going.

For a while, I carried a lot of guilt because I felt like I was dragging my family along on this journey they never asked to be part of.

Now?

I’m starting to think they might be pushing me along a little bit.

My middle daughter is apparently all-in on this idea of me becoming a life coach and helping people. So much so that she decided she was going to research what I needed to do, how I needed to do it, and what steps I needed to take.

I jokingly told her I expected a PowerPoint presentation.

Well, guess what?

I got a fucking PowerPoint presentation.

She even gave me crayons and a piece of paper so I could take notes.

And wow.

Her and my relationship has changed a lot in just the couple of weeks since I came out to her and told her my truth.

But that’s a whole other story.

We’ll get to that one later.

For now, there I was, sitting through a PowerPoint presentation my daughter made about me becoming a life coach, armed with crayons like I was about to start kindergarten.

And strangely enough, it felt like a kick in the ass.

Because I could feel myself starting to get stagnant again.

Thinking.

Planning.

Talking.

Dreaming.

But not actually fucking doing anything.

I needed to start making steps in the right direction.

Around the same time, one of my friends and I started talking about support groups. She told me she had never been to one and wondered if maybe it was something worth trying.

I’m not exactly a support-group kind of girl.

There have been points in my life when I probably should have been sitting in every AA meeting available all damn day long, but back then I refused to admit I had a problem.

And I sure as hell refused to accept help from anybody who tried to give it to me.

So support groups and Christina have never exactly gone hand in hand.

Still, I mentioned the idea to my wife.

That was apparently all she needed.

She immediately went down the rabbit hole looking for groups, events, organizations, churches, and anything else happening around us in the near future.

And while all of this was happening, I started thinking about something.

My wife and my friend know me really well.

They don’t really know each other.

Yet somehow, without talking to each other, both of them seemed to be shoving me in the exact same direction.

Get out there.

Meet people.

Talk.

Help.

Let people help you.

Do something.

So randomly — and I still don’t completely know why I did it — I pulled out my phone, opened Instagram, and found the local church I’ve been attending online for the last several weeks.

The only reason I found this church in the first place was because a friend told me:

“That church loves the gays.”

That was pretty much the sales pitch.

So I looked them up.

I found them.

And now, sitting there with everything else running through my head, I sent them a message.

It was vague.

Short.

Simple.

Something along the lines of:

My name is Christina. I started transitioning not that long ago, and I’m struggling with religious trauma and trying to figure out whether I’m living a life of sin.

Which, looking back, was pretty fucking off-topic from whatever I originally thought I was trying to accomplish that day.

But whatever.

I sent it.

And just like that, I had put myself out there.

Granted, it was just an Instagram fucking message.

But I had started something.

It was later in the day, so I honestly didn’t expect a response anytime soon. I figured churches probably have office hours and boundaries and normal people who don’t answer random Instagram messages at 6:30 or 7:00 at night.

Apparently I was wrong.

It didn’t take long.

They thanked me for reaching out. They told me they were there to help and support me. Then they gave me options.

Phone call.

Zoom.

Coffee.

Come to the church.

Whatever I was comfortable with.

I messaged back pretty quickly and said that with my work schedule, a phone call would probably be easiest.

Again, I figured I’d hear something the next day.

Nope.

Another message came back.

They gave me the pastor’s name and told me when she could talk. They said she was really looking forward to having a conversation with me.

So I accepted a time.

12:30 the next day.

And I specifically chose the option where she would call me instead of me calling her.

Because apparently I know myself well enough to build in safeguards against chickening the fuck out.

I expected to wake up nervous the next morning.

I wasn’t.

I was actually kind of excited.

12:30 came.

My phone rang.

I answered.

And immediately I could hear something in the pastor’s voice.

Hesitation.

Surprise.

I don’t really know how to explain it.

She introduced herself and said she was calling to speak with Christina.

I knew exactly what had happened.

I haven’t worked much on my voice.

I’ve played around with it a little bit, but nowhere near enough to actually use a different voice in everyday life.

So when she said she was calling for Christina, I answered:

“This is her.”

And then I very quickly explained that I hadn’t been transitioning very long and hadn’t really worked on my voice yet.

Instantly, it was fine.

And we started talking.

The phone call was supposed to be about religious trauma.

She asked me a couple of questions.

I answered them.

Then I decided it would probably be easier if I gave her a little backstory.

You know.

The Cliff Notes.

The short version.

After all, this call was only supposed to last about 30 minutes.

Well…

My Cliff Notes turned into a lot of fucking Cliff Notes.

We covered somewhere around 30 years of my life.

There were several points during the conversation when I stopped myself because I realized I was word-vomiting.

I was doing what I do.

I was being completely, brutally, probably unnecessarily open and honest.

A few times she stopped and said things like:

“Wow. I’m trying to wrap my head around this.”

Or:

“I really appreciate your honesty and your openness talking about this.”

That 30-minute phone call turned into an hour and fifteen minutes.

Maybe an hour and a half.

Hell, I don’t know.

I wasn’t watching the clock.

I was talking.

At one point she told me she had about five minutes before she needed to go.

I’m pretty sure I took ten.

Eventually I finally said, “Okay, I look forward to talking to you again. I’ll let you get on with your day.”

But before we got there, we covered a lot.

We talked about where my religious trauma started.

We talked about the fact that I’ve known I was trans since I was a little kid.

We talked about the guilt I carried because of it.

We talked about those angry prayers.

The nights I laid in bed crying, cussing God for making me this way.

Begging Him to fix me.

Begging Him to let me wake up the next morning in the right body.

We talked about drinking.

Self-destruction.

The years I spent running.

The fear that even after everything I’ve learned and everything I’ve experienced, maybe I’m still living a life of sin.

We covered so much shit that at some point I might have even told her my favorite color.

Who knows?

But as the conversation started winding down, something happened that surprised even me.

Without really thinking about it, I told her I wanted to continue.

Not just another conversation between her and me.

I meant all of it.

Her.

Other ministers.

Deacons.

Support groups.

People at the church.

Anybody she thought might benefit from sitting down and having a conversation with me.

I put it all out there.

I basically laid my heart and soul on the table and said:

Here.

Take it.

If somebody needs this, I’m available.

If there’s somebody you think would benefit from hearing my story, let me know.

I’ll be there in a heartbeat.

Because somewhere along the way, I’ve become convinced that part of my purpose in this life is helping somebody else.

Maybe one person.

Maybe a hundred.

Maybe thousands.

I don’t fucking know.

But I’m throwing the net as wide and as far as I can.

I understand there are people who don’t give a shit about my story.

There are people who don’t like me.

There are people who don’t want to understand me.

There are people who probably wouldn’t sit across a table from me if you paid them.

I’m fine with that.

Because almost every day, I get some kind of reassurance that what I’m doing matters.

A message.

A comment.

A conversation.

Somebody telling me that something I wrote made them think, made them feel less alone, or helped them understand something differently.

And I’m starting to realize I need to do this on a larger scale.

Medium has been amazing.

I’ve made friends here.

I’ve received support here.

I’ve learned things here.

I’ve told pieces of my story here that I never thought I’d tell anybody.

But I think I need a wider net than Medium.

So I guess I’ve made a decision.

I’m putting myself out there.

Phone calls.

Face-to-face meetings.

Sitting in a circle at a support group.

Walking into a church.

Whatever.

I’m here for it.

I’m here to have the conversations.

I’m here to tell my story.

And apparently I’m here to work through my religious trauma and figure out what the hell my relationship with God looks like after all these years.

That might actually be the craziest part of this whole damn thing.

If you had told me a month and a half ago that I would intentionally make time every Sunday morning to attend church — even if it’s still from my phone — I would’ve told you you were crazy.

And don’t get ahead of yourself.

I’m still watching online.

But if you had taken it one step further and told me I would voluntarily reach out to a church and tell a pastor I’m transgender, talk to her about 30 years of trauma, and then offer to come talk to basically anybody willing to sit in a room with me?

I probably would’ve laughed in your face.

My bio has said for a long time that I’m conservative and religious.

But if I’m being truthful, the “religious” part was mostly there because I believe in God.

I believe in Heaven.

I believe in Hell.

And I’ve always been scared shitless of Hell.

Religious trauma will do that to you.

But I wasn’t the person giving God credit for the good things.

God mostly heard from me when shit went wrong.

When I was angry.

When I was hurting.

When I was drunk.

When I was lying in bed crying myself to sleep because He hadn’t answered the same prayer I’d been praying since childhood.

Why did you make me like this?

Why won’t you fix me?

Why can’t I wake up tomorrow as the person I know I’m supposed to be?

For years, silence felt like an answer.

Now I’m starting to wonder if maybe I just didn’t understand the answer.

Maybe His plan didn’t happen on my timeline.

Because now I look around differently.

Every morning I get another opportunity to walk down that gravel road and watch the sun come up.

I have a voice.

I have the ability to tell a story.

I have somehow survived enough shit to have something worth saying.

And maybe that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now.

Telling you about this weird chain of events that has happened over the last few days.

As crazy as it sounds, maybe He put me in that bar a few weeks ago.

Maybe there was a reason I ended up sitting at that table, having a drink with a group of people I didn’t know very well but who accepted me.

Maybe there was a reason one of those women casually told me about:

“The church that loves the gays.”

Maybe there was a reason I remembered it.

Maybe there was a reason I found that church online.

Maybe there was a reason I started watching.

Maybe there was a reason my wife started looking for support groups.

Maybe there was a reason my friend brought up the same thing.

Maybe there was a reason my daughter handed me a fucking PowerPoint presentation and some crayons.

And maybe there was a reason that, sitting there with all of this shit swirling around in my head, I randomly opened Instagram and sent a message I hadn’t planned on sending.

Maybe it’s about healing.

Maybe it’s about finding my community.

Maybe it’s about helping somebody.

Maybe I’m just wasting a tremendous amount of hot air telling my story to a bunch of new people.

I don’t know yet.

But for the first time in my life, I don’t think I need to know.

I just need to keep walking toward it.

And I’m not going to sit here and tell you that you have to believe in God.

I’m not going to tell you that you have to pray.

I’m not going to tell you that you have to go to church.

That’s not me.

You want to talk about believing in God?

Great.

You want to talk about not believing in God?

Great.

You want to talk about religious trauma?

Pull up a chair.

You want to talk about the cute new pair of shoes you bought or the new goth look you finally figured out?

Fuck yeah.

Let’s talk about that too.

I’m here for it.

I’m having the conversations.

I’m going to keep having the conversations.

And for the first time in a very long time, I truly love my life and the direction it’s going.

Before the pastor and I got off the phone, she asked me something.

Had I considered coming to church in person?

I told her the truth.

My wife and kids already have another church.

My kids love it there. My wife volunteers there. She’s involved with the youth community because our kids are involved. She has friends there.

It’s part of their life.

But we’ve also talked about the fact that when my truth eventually comes out, there’s a pretty good chance some people there aren’t going to be accepting.

We’ve talked about the possibility that someday she might have to find another church.

We’ve talked about looking.

But we’ve never actually put much effort into it.

Hell, I didn’t put any effort into finding this one.

It kind of found me.

So yes.

Sometime in the near future, I’m going to walk through those doors.

I’m going to meet people.

I’m going to shake hands.

I’m going to have conversations.

But I gave the pastor a heads-up about something.

They’re going to have to meet the other version of me first.

Because Christina and I are still fighting some lifelong demons together.

And right now, we’re not quite ready to walk through the doors of a church in girl mode.

Not yet.

For now, Christina attends church online.

When we finally go into the building, we’ll probably go in boy mode.

And strangely, I think there might be something beautiful about that.

Because these people might get to see the whole thing.

They might get to meet me somewhere in the middle.

They might get to watch the person I’ve been slowly become the person I’ve always been.

They might see the fear.

They might see the awkwardness.

They might see the hair getting longer.

They might see the changes.

They might see the confidence grow.

And hopefully, they get to see the happiness.

They’ll get to see me working through this.

They’ll get to see me owning it.

Because boy me isn’t gone.

Not yet.

He’s still doing his job.

He’s still navigating parts of the world that Christina isn’t quite ready to navigate.

He’s still going to work.

He’s still showing up.

He’s still getting us through the doors.

But slowly, surely, Christina is taking over.

So when I walk into that church for the first time, they’ll probably see a guy standing in front of them.

Longer hair.

Pierced ears.

A full sleeve of lilies tattooed down his right arm.

That’s me.

Take her or leave her.

They may see that version of me twice.

They may see that version of me two hundred times.

I don’t know.

But one of these days, they’re going to see something different.

One of these days I’m going to look in the mirror before church, and I’m not going to have to search for Christina.

She’s just going to be there.

And she’s going to be confident enough to own it.

Out in the world.

Maybe I’ll put on a cute dress.

Maybe I’ll find the perfect pair of shoes.

I’ll do my makeup.

I’ll probably stare at myself in the mirror about seventeen times before I finally get my ass out the door.

And then I’ll drive to that same church.

I’ll park in that same parking lot.

I’ll walk toward those same doors.

Except this time, I won’t be asking boy me to get me through them.

Because he will have finished his job.

He spent more than forty years keeping me alive.

He took the punches.

He carried the guilt.

He drank.

He got angry.

He prayed.

He begged.

He hid me when hiding me was the only way he knew how to protect us.

And now he’s doing one last thing for me.

He’s putting Christina in the places she’s afraid to put herself.

He’s starting the conversations.

He’s opening the doors.

And someday, when I’m ready, he’ll step aside.

I’ll put my hand on that church door myself.

I’ll walk through it as Christina.

And maybe that was the answer to all those prayers after all.

Maybe God was never going to magically change me overnight.

Maybe He was waiting for me to finally stop asking Him to make Christina disappear.

And start asking Him where He wants her to go.