Dysphoria Blues

By Monika Kowalska

Once upon a time, in the land of bathroom mirrors and selfie lights, I found myself engaged in an eternal struggle. It wasn’t with dragons, but rather with the very reflection staring back at me. Oh, the agony! Every time I glanced into a mirror, I saw this face, my face, yes, but it didn’t match the woman I longed to be. The edges of my jaw, too square. The brow, just a tad too prominent. The nose? Definitely too... masculine. I wasn’t seeing me; I was seeing him, a ghost of the past that lingered like an unwelcome shadow. Every time I tried to look at myself with love, there he was, as if mocking me from the other side of the glass.

“Why can’t you just... vanish?” I would ask. But no answer came, only the cruel silence of a face that refused to comply.

Of course, there were ways to fix this, solutions whispered in beauty clinics and showcased in dazzling before-and-after photos. Oh yes, doctors who promise a future of flawless beauty, and photos of women who look like they’ve been kissed by a thousand suns, sparkling with success and grace. They show you pictures of ladies who, to be honest, might as well be models walking down the runway in Paris, not just from a surgery, they were practically sculpted by the gods themselves. And I get it, they are successful, in the sense that no one could argue they didn’t absolutely nail it. The problem? Those photos made me feel like a failed contestant on a beauty pageant that hadn’t even been announced yet.

Then there’s the “visualization” process. You know, before the surgery, the moment they show you a sketch of what your future could look like after surgery. It’s as if they’re pulling a magic trick, turning my face into a rendition of some woman who looks like a million dollars. “Look, darling,” they say, “You’ll look just like this!” But deep down, I know... this is just a sketch. The reality is, I’ll be lucky if I even manage a decent resemblance to that lady. Sure, there’s FaceApp, which lets you envision your future face, because nothing says “self-assurance” like digitally altering your appearance with the click of a button. Does it help? Sort of. Does it make me feel better? Sometimes. But ultimately, FaceApp is like a catfishing friend who promises you a stunning beach vacation but somehow gets you stuck in a terrible Airbnb instead.

And then, there’s testosterone. Oh, testosterone, you vicious, invisible beast! It’s like an unwelcome guest at a party who keeps pushing you to drink more, and suddenly, you’re left with a mustache you never wanted. Every drop of that hormone, coursing through my veins, felt like it was screaming, “You’re not a girl, stop pretending.” And I resented it more than I could ever express. I was envious, oh so envious, of those teenage souls on puberty blockers. How lucky they were to have their journey unfold without this extra challenge! They were dancing through life with smooth skin, soft features, and voices that didn’t betray their gender. Me? I had to fight for every inch of my femininity. Every new wrinkle of masculinity etched into my face felt like a tiny rebellion against who I truly was.

But still, I fought on. I fought the testosterone. I fought the masculine features that seemed to carve their way into my face no matter how hard I tried. And every day, I looked into the mirror, and while I may not have seen her yet, I knew she was there, waiting. Because, as much as the dysphoria gnawed at me, I knew one thing to be true: I wouldn’t stop until I became the woman I knew I was. The fight would be long, yes, and it would be hard, but as I stood in front of that mirror, I made a silent promise to myself. One day, the dysphoria would lose. And I would win.

And then came the day, the day of the surgery I had dreamed about for so long. I woke up, my body heavy with the anesthesia, the world spinning slightly around me. I felt dizzy, like I was floating in and out of reality, and my first thoughts were, Did it work? Did the surgeons truly manage to give me the face I’ve always longed for? But, of course, I couldn’t know just yet. My face was swathed in bandages, hiding the results from me like a great secret I would have to wait to uncover. The dysphoria, that relentless companion that had shadowed me for so many years, was gone, for now. I knew it was just a matter of time, but in this moment, I felt a sense of peace I hadn’t known before. I had to be patient.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, the bandages came off. My hand trembled as I held the mirror, afraid yet so hopeful. There it was, my face, swollen, bruised, still fresh from surgery, but already hinting at the transformation. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it was promising, so promising. The masculine edges, the parts of me that had felt like a battle zone, were gone. Did it change me totally? No. I still resembled myself, but now it was as if I was looking at a version of me that had been hiding under layers of disguise. The face in the mirror felt more me than ever before, but in a way that was softer, more feminine. I wasn’t someone else, I was finally myself.

And then, I looked to my mother and my sister. My mother, tearful but not with sorrow, just the release of a heavy weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying. Her eyes, once filled with confusion and worry, now shone with a new light. She saw her daughter, and for the first time in years, it felt like we were seeing each other as we truly were. My sister, ever the skeptic, looked at me with a mix of surprise and awe. She leaned in, examining my face, and for the first time, I felt her truly see me, not just as the girl she had always known, but as the woman I had always been inside. The relief in her eyes was unmistakable, and in that moment, I knew the journey had been worth it. The transformation wasn’t just physical, it was everyone’s transformation. And as we embraced, I knew, deep down, that this was the moment where the dysphoria finally lost.

Since 2013, Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.

Wearing Bebe

Paul Dano (left) femulating in the 2010 film The Extra Man.