New Hubble Image Of NGC 2174 By Hubble Space Telescope / ESA

i hate how conservatives (and some „radfems”) frame detransition.

This girl used to be beautiful but now... she’s manly.. she’s strange, she does not fit in, what a tragedy!

i haaaate it.

On top of being incredibly mysoginystic, it does not adress other effects of transition, like health effects, and the things that actually pushed people to transitioning in the first place! It creates more problems than it tries to adress.

Who fucking cares how you look after being on T? I don’t. You have more body hair, a different fat distribution? Great! That’s not the reason people should be critical of transitioning!

Feeling blue by Hubble Space Telescope / ESA

"Why do you want to look like a man?"

I wear clothing from the men’s section of the clothing store. My leg hairs are longer than most of the hair in my head. I never wear any makeup, no matter if I’m going out to buy bread in the morning or if I’m going to a party. People often call me “sir”. Others hurl slurs at me, sometimes calling me a “dyke”, sometimes calling me a “faggot”, both showing their disapproval of my physical presentation. I see little kids asking their mothers, in whispers, if I am a boy or a girl. And people ask me all the time, why do I want to look like a man?

The answer is simple. I don’t.

And I do not look like a man.

I look like a woman who refuses to perform femininity.

My unshaven legs do not make me like a man, they’re MY legs, and MY hair, and I am a woman. My “boy’s” clothes are worn on my body, the body of a woman. My naked, unpainted face is the face of a woman. I am a woman, and this is not defined by a haircut or a choice of attire, or by lipstick or high heels, or boxer briefs and men’s deodorant worn over fuzzy unshaven armpits. There’s nothing manly about me.

I am a woman, not by choice, but by fact. Because “woman” is a reality imposed to me, from the day I was born and given a woman’s name, to the day I was six and I was told I couldn’t take off my shirt in a blazing hot summer day because one day I would have breasts, to last night when I walked home in a state of hyper-awareness, my house keys tightly clutched between my fingers, tracking the movements of every man in the dark streets. I am a woman because, since before my own birth, when an ultrasonography picture informed my parents that I would be born with a vulva, I have been groomed to be a member of the woman class, the breeding stock class, the sex class, the lower class. I was taught to be accomodating and speak softly, to not bring attention to myself and to spare men’s feelings. I was taught that the boy who pulled my hair and threw his toy train at me, aiming for my head, probably did it because he liked me, and boys will be boys anyway. I learned that, if I did the same to him, I was a troublemaker. That my assertiveness is unladylike. That one day I would bear some man’s children, and this was pretty much destiny. That my worth was in my looks, more than in my brain. I am a woman because I was taught all these things, and I am a woman because people expect me to know these lessons by heart, and follow every one of them. When people ask me why do I want to look like a man, what they’re actually asking is why am I not marking myself as a woman. They’re asking why do I fail to perform the role of femininity, to make myself pleasing and unthreatening to the eyes of the upper class, the man class. My mother once voiced her concerns to me, that my looks would make me a target for male violence, and she is right to be concerned. I am perceived as a member of the lower class who refuses to bear the marks and play the role imposed to me. I refuse to shave my legs to look like a pre-pubescent girl, innocent and vulnerable, or to wear shoes that force me to walk on the tips of my toes, slow and precariously balanced, and this makes men angry, because this is a counscious act of rebellion. This is me saying I am not theirs. I will not please them. I do not desire their approval or their attention. And men often get violent when we refuse to cater to them. My choices of visual presentation make me a cautionary tale. I am the hairy, ugly, lesbian feminist, the one they warn other women about. “Don’t be like her”, they say, “or no man will ever want you”. But I don’t want them either, and I do not want to look like them, or be like them, or have anything to do with them. I want to be free from men and their bullshit standards. I want to strut around proudly, shamelessly unladylike, looking like a woman looks when she’s not covered in face paint and restrictive clothing, when she doesn’t care about pleasing men. I do not look like a man, and nothing will ever make me look like one. I am pure, unadulterated woman. I choose myself over them, I choose women over them. If that makes them hate me, so be it. Because I am a woman, they would hate me no matter what I did.

Some menaces 😈

The Elephant’s Trunk Nebula in Cepheus via NASA https://ift.tt/2PaHaGq

No better time than time spent with my girls.

You don’t have to love your body. You don’t even have to like it. But you have to find ways to live with it, as well as you can, and be kind to it whenever possible.

Your body is not the outward expression of your soul. It is not a reflection or a representation of your worth or your True Self. It’s just inhabited meat. It’s a flesh machine with planned obsolescence, and you have to take care of it.

It’s good to love your body, if you can. It will enhance your timed experience of the world if you can appreciate it without too much resentment for the ways it fails or disappoints you. But if you cannot love it, strive at least for neutrality. Make truces with it, however uneasy, and treat it with the respect you would show to any other animal shape.

Worked upper body today. I MISS MY MUSCLES 😭😭😭

I need heavier weights because what I have just isn’t cutting it.

Also, check out how cute my workout buddy is. She’s here for the gainz yo!!💪🏼

Protect weird girls. Ya know…. the ones that used to make up intricate games on the playground about ghosts and saving the world. The ones that used to have a whole BOX of fucking rolly pollies and worms. Those girls that used to have mason jars FULL of fucking god knows WHAT on their mother’s back porch. Protect… girls. Girls that daydream too much. Girls that could go out to Walmart dressed in cow girl boots, and a faux fur coat. Girls that invent whole other worlds in their heads. Girls that love too much. Girls that don’t love quite enough. Girls that don’t look, or sound the way society expects them to. Loud girls. Quiet girls. Angry girls. Sad girls. Support girls being themselves, and being unapologetic about it. The ones that get labeled “weird” for simply existing and being brave enough to not dim themselves down, just because society tells them, too. The girls that never lost their magic once they grew up. Support weird girls. 

"I jiggle, therefore I am" is my new life motto