I realized I was nonbinary last year, at 42, right in the middle of COVID-19 social distancing. Life was quiet, almost painfully so. I barely saw anyone besides my partner and kids, which gave me the space and solitude I didn’t know I needed to reflect deeply on myself. For years, I had been learning about gender, gender identity, gender expression, and being trans through several Instagram accounts. I watched movies, read stories, and worked on correcting and updating my language, how I viewed people, and how I described them. It was slow, often messy work, but it planted seeds I didn’t yet understand.
Gradually, I began to feel a sense of alignment—as if my gender identity were a glove, and finally, I was finding one that fit. I had always “been a woman” (I put that in quotes because, honestly, I was never really a woman). It wasn’t a conscious choice; it was the default. I wasn’t a man, so “woman” was what was left. I believed that my body, my genitalia, and my appearance made me a woman. I had been raised with binary ideas of gender, never questioning them. I didn’t realize that these boxes weren’t real—they were human-made constructs, and I didn’t have to squeeze myself into any of them.
When I finally told my boyfriend, a month later, I cried. When I told my two sisters, a few months after that, I cried again. But these tears weren’t sadness—they were a tangle of happiness, emotion, confusion, and fear. Fear that people might argue, or that they wouldn’t understand. The words themselves came out shakily: “I think I might be nonbinary,” followed by a lot of sobs. My boyfriend, who had heard fragments of my thoughts over many conversations, understood a little more. Everyone else needed explanations—about what nonbinary meant, about cis and trans identities.
Thankfully, I didn’t encounter hate or judgment from those closest to me. Most simply said it was fine. But “fine” felt insufficient. It often seemed that people weren’t truly interested in understanding. Many continued to see and talk about me as “a woman,” with sighs and comments like, “Argh, this is so confusing and hard for me.” I felt difficult, like a late bloomer in a trend, too old to discover this about myself now.
I had always been the straight one, the daughter, the sister, the mother. Part of me felt like an imposter—like a fraud waiting to be exposed. But through a lot of hard, challenging, and sometimes fun self-work, I’ve grown my capacity for self-understanding, compassion, and love. Deep down, I know I’m not a fraud. Yet the mind can hold conflicting thoughts and emotions at the same time, and I still sometimes feel apart from the LGBTQAI community.
A significant reason people struggle to respect my pronouns, use non-gendered words, or honor my preferred name is my gender expression—it hasn’t changed much. A before-and-after picture wouldn’t reveal much difference. I don’t look androgynous. I don’t present outwardly as anything other than what society labels “womanly” or feminine. I constantly remind and correct people: “I’m not a woman, I’m not a she, I’m not a mother. I am nonbinary, my pronouns are they/them, and I’m a parent.” It can feel exhausting, but it is necessary for my own self-respect.
There is one beautiful exception: my daughter, almost 20 now. She embraced the changes gradually, but over a few months, she shifted naturally—woman became human, mother became parent, she became they, Tora became Neel, and mamma became mapa. We can talk, laugh, and gently correct assumptions, like when someone mistakes me for her father.
My son, on the other hand, is still adjusting. He respects me, but he forgets pronouns or titles occasionally. I’ve accepted this—it will take him time to grow into these changes, to fully understand and integrate them. I give him space, privacy, and patience.
My boyfriend has been a constant anchor. From the moment I shared my truth, he has supported me completely. He cheers me on from the sidelines, tries his best to use my pronouns and preferred name, and creates space for me to discover myself—even when neither of us fully understands everything yet.
I am okay with being called mamma, but I prefer it used interchangeably with mapa, or simply Neel. What I cannot accept are labels like woman, lady, daughter, girl, sister, girlfriend, or queen—they don’t fit who I am.
I want people to try, stumble, and try again. Learning takes time, breaking habits takes time. When I correct someone, it isn’t an accusation; it’s an invitation to see me as I truly am. Respect doesn’t require full understanding—it requires a willingness to honor another human being.
So far, my support network has largely existed online. Instagram has been a lifeline, with trans and nonbinary voices like Jeffrey Marsh, Ty Deran, and Deni Todorović guiding, educating, and loving me from afar. Their wisdom has been invaluable. But nothing replaces in-person connection. Meeting other nonbinary people, even briefly through my daughter, brought tears, giggles, and an indescribable feeling of recognition. Being called by my name and pronouns in real life feels like euphoria—it makes me feel truly seen for the first time.
My journey is ongoing and wonderful, though not without challenges. The lack of face-to-face connections, my own doubts about being “too old,” and being continually misgendered are difficult. I wrestle with my right to take up space unapologetically, to be treated as me, and to demand the respect I deserve.
But overall, this journey is freeing, beautiful, and affirming. I now have the words, understanding, and confidence to be myself. I am a baby enby in an old enby suit, learning, growing, and living more authentically every day. I hope, in sharing my story, to inspire others to embrace their own truths, to take up space, and to experience the profound joy of being seen.
