Chapter 24: Lose your words, then explain yourself

Running out of words while there is so much left to say.

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Language isn’t a luxury. It’s a means of survival — a weapon, a spine. But it’s also a system, an apparatus, a rulebook. And like any rulebook, it can be used to judge, to rank, to sort, to weed out. Anyone who doesn’t fit has to acquire the lingo, break it apart, reassemble it, bend to it, be torn by it, or shut up.

Trans people live under constant semantic scrutiny. They have to explain before they speak. Name themselves before they feel. Label themselves before they live. And every label is not just a word — it’s an entry ticket, a stamp, a safeguard against suspicion.

“How may I call you?” sounds like care, but is often a test. “What exactly are you?” sounds like curiosity, but is often a form of control. Because behind every question sits an expectation: Tell me what you are, so I can sort you into the right box.

And when you can’t say it, it’s your own fault if people mistreat you. Language becomes a trial period — a proving ground where it’s decided whether someone is understood or a nuisance. And while cis people get to exist in vague everyday language, trans people can’t risk imprecision. Every syllable counts. Every word has to land. Because one wrong sentence, one imprecise pronoun, one unfortunate phrasing can lead to respect being withdrawn, like an expired entry ticket.

The expectation is: Say who you are. Say what you feel. Say why you look this way. Say what you call it. Say it clearly. Say it now. Say it nicely.

But what happens when you run out of words? When your tongue dries out from all the explaining? When your throat tightens from all the repetition? When every conversation begins with a disclaimer, a defense, a pre‑explanation, and a loan of patience no one ever intends to repay?

That’s when language loses its purpose. That’s when it turns hollow. That’s when it becomes noise — a chore, like a tax return or a doctor’s intake form. No longer expression, but self‑disclosure.

And worse: language that doesn’t fit gets misused. It becomes a weapon against those who never invented it. When you’re misgendered, they say: it wasn’t intentional. When your chosen name is ignored, they say: it’s just too much to remember. When they talk about your body as if it were an object, they insist: I didn’t mean it in a bad way.

Language is allowed anything, as long as it doesn’t cause trouble. But don’t you dare let it become too direct. Don’t you dare, as a trans person, name violence for what it is: dehumanization. Don’t you dare say “no” when they debate your right to exist. Don’t you dare refuse to explain everything, over and over again.

That’s when it gets loud. That’s when you’re accused of being radical. Unwilling to talk. Unwilling to integrate. Trying to impose yourself instead.

But anyone who’s been forced for decades to legitimize themselves eventually runs out of the energy required to stay civil. You don’t want to explain anymore. You don’t want to be patient anymore. You don’t want to be forced to speak just to be recognized as human.

And eventually it happens: you go quiet. Not out of spite, but out of tiredness. Not out of refusal, but out of self‑defense. Not as a statement, but as a last reserve of dignity.

Because anyone who loses their language also loses their translation. And anyone who can’t be translated anymore isn’t understood — they’re discarded.

The irony is this: Those who were forced to speak the most are the ones who eventually fall silent. Because they’ve learned that language doesn’t protect. They know words won’t save them when no one is listening. Because they’ve understood that language is a space — and that this space is often closed to them.

Tip from hell: When you run out of words and people still drag their expectations behind them like a suitcase full of stale excuses, remember this: You are not a chat bot that spits out answers on demand. You are not required to constantly translate or apologize just so others can stay comfortable. Language is not a straightjacket, but a tool. And when you don’t have the strength to play their game, silence stops being capitulation — it becomes rebellion.

Don’t let anyone convince you that you have to constantly explain yourself just to be “right.” Your existence doesn’t need a user’s manual. And anyone unwilling to listen never deserved your explanations in the first place.

Save your energy for yourself, and for those who genuinely want to understand. Sometimes silence says more than all the words you could ever find.