“I never look back, darling. It distracts from the now.” — Edna Mode

Except I did.

I was dressed perfectly. The wig. The pink silk chiffon scarf. A black dress with black kitten heels. The glasses and golden-brown lip to tie it all together.

Why is it that in the comfort of my own place, I can dress this way and feel excitement? Why is it that I can play pretend, wear the glitzy makeup, feel the shimmer of it all — but once I walk out the door, my anxiety starts coming full force?

I’m a mind reader, didn’t I tell you?

My friend’s boyfriend is wondering if I’ll hit on them, so they’re holding onto her hand like it’s the last thing to hold.

A person I’ve met a bunch of times sits at our table and keeps staring at me — trying to make me out.
Will I go into the ladies’ restroom? Am I a woman? Am I a man?
DOES IT FUCKING MATTER? I’M IN A DAMN COSTUME.

Oh, wait — I forgot it does. Because some people want to be fucking transphobes.
Well, if it mattered that fucking much, I took a shit before I left for the night.

But immediately, this person’s thoughts and feelings — whether true or not — start invading my armor.

I shouldn’t have dressed this way.
I should’ve played it safe.
Been an avocado. Or a bag of Hot Cheetos. Like I was a few years ago.

Ugh. Why did I let my feelings get the best of me? Why did I let my anxiety win? Why did I cry myself back home, thinking that because one person maybe didn’t like the way I looked or the way I was dressed, I needed to leave?

“I just didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable,” I tell myself on the way home.

BUT WHY? WHY DO I CARE?

I’m 31 years old and I still care about what people think?
I’m literally killing myself every time I go against what feels light and exciting and free.

I’m tired. I’m exhausted.

I just want to belong in my own skin. In my own heart space and lungs.

I just WANT THIS FLAP OF SKIN THAT I’M WEARING TO FIT FUCKING RIGHT FOR ONCE.

Why can’t I feel safe in this decrepit, useless fucking skin?
It’s mine, and yet I feel like I don’t belong in it. I feel alien.

Every bully that ever was made its appearance in my head tonight — in the peripheries of my mind.
I looked back, and I crumbled.
I couldn’t even enjoy the now.

At the end of the night, even though I came crying with eyeliner streaks down my cheeks, this wasn’t about a costume – it never really is. It was about the moment I realized how quickly joy can turn to fear. This isn’t a cry for validation. It’s a confession. A moment of collapse and clarity. I wanted to feel light, fun, untouchable — and instead, I felt like a target. But it was me that made myself the target in my mind. Maybe I was the villain in someone else’s mind in that moment, but in that moment, there was a spark of a hero.

I crumbled. But I’m still rebuilding. Maybe this was just another layer shedding, another old version of me dying off so something freer can breathe.

If you’ve ever left somewhere early because you couldn’t bear being stared at — or if you’ve ever walked home wishing you could unzip yourself and start over — this is for you. You’re not alone. And maybe one day, we’ll both stop looking back.