Lazily lolling in bed late-ish one recent morning, I lay listening to birds obliviously chirping outside, my friend downstairs listening to the ABC News Breakfast team dissecting the latest dramatic political news, her new baby occasionally grizzling (possibly about the pervasiveness of dramatic political news in their household) with really large airplanes in the final stages of descending to land at Sydney Airport utterly drowning out all of the above and much more every few minutes. With this soundtrack playing, I attempted to ponder the concept of whether it was possible that one day I could ever forget that I had spent decades believing that I was a cisgender male. I settled on being a bit certain that it probably wasn’t possible to forget this. I was less certain though about whether either possibility was a concern to me or not. I couldn’t see that a concrete conclusion was possible, so I made the firm decision to arise immediately to get on with the rest of my life … in the form of consuming an interesting breakfast with two good coffees whilst talking about life and love with my friend and her new baby at an insouciant neighbourhood cafe.
The diary of a regional transition