It was February 2024, I think… The first time I bought women’s clothing for myself. Two skirts, two tops. One skirt looked like something a businesswoman would wear—structured, elegant, confident. The other was red, youthful, the kind of skirt a carefree girl would wear as it twirls. Two different versions of me folded into shopping bags.

I remember the first time I wore that skirt. It was indescribable. Strange, yet an incredible kind of happiness. It was as if a part of me that had been hidden for so long was finally free. I looked at myself in the mirror, and for the first time, I truly saw me.

My first bra set, my first wig, my first dress… Every piece I wore made me feel like I was flying. Those moments gave me hope.

But time has a way of taking things from you.

As the days passed, that excitement began to fade. The hope inside me started to dwindle. The colors that once lifted me up now felt dull, meaningless, lifeless. The happiness I felt when I looked at myself in the mirror turned into an empty expression.

Now, I sit in the corner of my room, on my bed. With fear. I’ve become someone who doesn’t want to leave this place, someone who feels like stepping out would only make things worse. Everything feels so merciless. The world strikes hardest where you hope the most. Every time I dream of something, every time I look forward to a better future, I realize the depth of my hopelessness, and I pity myself. But it’s all in vain.

I am pitiful.

A person deceiving themselves with dreams, a story that ended long ago.

But I have never gotten tired of dressing as a woman. On the contrary, at times, it’s the only thing that keeps me standing. I haven’t let go of the things that make me who I am, because without holding onto them, I might have already disappeared. Even when I’ve lost all hope, holding onto a dress, seeing myself in a skirt, reminds me of something I’ve forgotten:

I am still here.