About self-image, dysphoria, and the absurd pressure to be passable all the time.
Your body: not your home, not your temple. More like a construction project – behind schedule, over budget, and constantly inspected by people who don’t even live there.
Here’s the task: Be pretty. Be authentic. Be visibly trans, but always on Instagram level. No discolorations, no stubble, no shadows. Not under your eyes, not around your chin. Beard? A curse or a fetish, depending on who’s looking. Some celebrate it as confidence; others treat it as proof you’re failing at womanhood. You’re supposed to hate it, to validate your femininity, but also love it to prove you’re liberated from gender norms. A little bit of stubble becomes a press release. One hair too much, and you are “brave,” but unfortunately no longer passing.
Tipp from hell: Learn how to shave perfectly, leaving no trace: no razor bumps, no blood, no regret. Or better: laser it away. But only after properly documenting your dysphoria, waiting your turn, and in the meantime enduring the humiliation. You must prove you have the right to hate your body. And if you leave some stubble – out of defiance, exhaustion, or simply because your shaver just died, prepare for the look. Not disgust. Not appreciation. Just that strained smile that says: “I don’t know whether to adore or pity you.”
A trans person doesn’t get a body image, only a master plan. Your skin isn’t protection; it’s a battlefield. Everything is suspect: your hips, your swagger, your voice – unless you are the token queer guest in a diversity panel. Dysphoria isn’t an emotion; it’s a constant buzz. Like tinnitus, except everyone insists it’s not real. Or worse: telling you that you could still feel pretty if you just loved yourself enough. Self-love? Sure. Like a fire extinguisher in a burning house. They want you to love your body, but only after you’ve remodeled it to match their beauty standards.
Until then: You’re a blueprint with errors. Work in progress. A silver screen for their ideals. And no matter how painful it is: you still have to get up, shower, go outside, and buy groceries. With stubble. With fear. With shame. And then someone next to you, talking on the phone says: “I saw a man in a dress.” You breathe in, count to ten, and think: I just wanted to buy some bananas.
Excerpt from “The Signature Trans Experience.” © 2026 by Jessica Krämer and Liz Anders. All rights reserved.