Member-only story
I grew up in church—literally. As a pastor’s kid, I spent countless hours doodling in sanctuary pews. I happily wore dresses and bows on Sunday mornings and curlers in my hair on Saturday nights; I experimented with makeup as soon as I was allowed to.
One of my sisters was labeled a “tomboy” by the adults in our lives. She typically took male roles during our dress-up games: prince, detective, grandpa. We were close in age, often mistaken for twins. Unlike me, she was athletic, playing basketball with boys while I hung back timidly with the other girls.
I came out as bisexual at 18, as soon as I left my evangelical upbringing. Growing up, I’d never questioned my sexuality; I’d consistently had crushes on boys. Once I started putting the pieces together—oh, those really intense feelings where I want to be SUPER DUPER close friends with someone are also attraction in action!—I confidently came out.
But for years after that, I took my gender identity as a given. The only trans narratives I heard involved knowing from a young age. With six siblings, most of whom were also assigned female at birth, I’d been steeped in habitual comparison. I was among the femme-est of us all.
I believed that gender was something outsiders could suss out from reviewing one’s childhood. “You only…
