My First Love Came Out as Transgender
Writer Suzannah Weiss and her first love. (Photo: Courtesy of Suzannah Weiss)
“I don’t feel comfortable in the male gender role.”
When John* first told me this on a walk through the woods during college, I thought it described a common feeling. Didn’t we all defy gender stereotypes in some way or another?
I imagined what he might be referring to, and they were all things I adored about him. He loved animals, attentively caring for his pet guinea pig and buying lobsters just to set them free in the water. He had meaningful friendships with girls, who viewed him as a confidant. He was close with his mother.
But when he brought it up again as we sat on the bed in my dorm room, it had a more serious tone. “I really need you to know, I don’t feel like a man.”
I still didn’t get it. As a gender and sexuality studies major, I knew what being transgender meant and supported the LGBT community. But I couldn’t tell if he was transgender or just struggling with the tough expectations our society imposes on men.
“What are you going to do?” I asked him. “I don’t know,” he replied.
I felt scared. I was only 20, and he was 19 and my first love. He had bought me roses on Valentine’s Day and given me old philosophy books that belonged to his grandparents and we discussed spiritual beliefs that I hadn’t shared with anyone else. I couldn’t lose him. Though I intellectually knew he would remain the same person if he transitioned, I irrationally felt as if some stranger would take his place.
To my relief, months passed without him bringing up his gender again. Yet he grew distant, calling me less often and acting sullen without telling me why. When he showed up uninvited at my dorm one afternoon and told me we needed to talk, I had a hunch what was happening.
“Are you breaking up with me?” He let out a slow sigh. “But you love me.” He told me he didn’t anymore. We were totally different people, he said.
The period following that breakup still goes down as the lowest point of my life. Everything reminded me of him: The parking lot outside my school where we once danced below the stars, the sign on my door where he’d written “is amazing” under my name, the train station where he’d greeted me with so many giant hugs. I sat through class after class blinking back tears.
As a last parting gift that June, I sent him a birthday card telling him I would always love him and cherish what we had, along with a clock that chimed to the tune of “Amazing Grace,” a song that inspired him. To my surprise, he sent me a “thank you” note on Facebook, along with a long message explaining why he really broke up with me.
“Since I was very young, I felt uncomfortable living as a male,” he wrote. “I would ride my bike to Walmart to buy girls’ clothing. I felt so ashamed and confused about why I did this.”
He went on to explain that he had always confided in me about everything except his gender identity because he didn’t want to impose his struggles on me. “I hope you understand that I need to transition to live a happy life, and that I do and always will love you,” he continued. “I gave you all of myself when we were together, and will continue to do that as long as you allow me,” he closed the message.
Of course I would allow him, I thought. Whatever he had to do, I loved him unconditionally. Blinded by the light at the end of the tunnel of our devastating breakup, I called him and asked to get back together.
We spent the next few weeks reliving the innocent early days of our romance. But they couldn’t last. Things were different now. When he started telling me he had purchased women’s clothing and made doctors’ appointments to start hormone treatment, I awoke from our fleeting dream and began to understand this was all very real.
Though I supported trans rights, picturing myself in a relationship with a trans person was overwhelming. Would my sexual orientation change? Would my attraction to him fade once he transitioned? What would people think of me? There was no way my family would understand.
Desperate to preserve our love, I tried to convince him not to go through with it. I now see that attempting to influence such a personal decision was unfair, but back then, I feared that if he transitioned, I would lose my boyfriend. In reality, though, I was already losing him due to my own lack of acceptance.
Several months after our reunion, he broke up with me again. Like the first time, he had a fake reason — I had criticized his mom — but again, he later confessed his real impetus over Facebook messenger: “I broke up with you because I knew romantically we could never make it work with what I needed to do.” I hated that he was right. As his girlfriend, I had too many ulterior motives to support him unconditionally like he deserved.
I was able to support him as a friend, however, after the pain of the breakup subsided. The last time I saw him, he was starting hormone treatment but still identifying as male, and we enjoyed the same laughs and heartfelt conversations we had as a couple.
“I think we were always better off as friends than as lovers,” he texted me afterward. Whether we could have lasted as lovers in an alternate universe, free of gender-based constraints, I can’t possibly know. But in this universe, breaking up was the right decision for us both. By prompting him to end our relationship, I opted out of the contempt and ridicule faced by people who don’t follow society’s rules for who we should be or who we should date. But he didn’t have that option. And that must have been a thousand times scarier than my own predicament.
We’ve gradually lost touch over the years, so I can only hope my ex has found people less fazed by his identity than I was. But despite my shortcomings, as I promised following that first breakup, I will always love him, her, or whomever John* has become.
*Name has been changed.
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