At 4 a.m., you stood before the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing the tired face staring back. The hollows beneath your reddened eyes spoke of restless nights, and your hair—long, unkempt, and falling past your waist—felt like a heavy weight dragging you down. Your fingers tightened around the pair of scissors you’d grabbed moments earlier, your chest tight with anticipation and resolve.

With each deliberate cut, chunks of hair tumbled to the floor. The sound of the blades slicing through felt almost cathartic. You worked with shaky hands until your reflection looked different—lighter, freer. Your hair now stopped just above your neck, short and uneven, but it was you. For the first time in a long while, it felt like you were staring at someone you could recognize. Someone you wanted to be.

You were trans. That truth burned quietly in your chest, a secret you held close, but the weight of hiding it was beginning to suffocate you. No one really knew, and that made this moment all the more terrifying—and freeing.

Once the bathroom floor was swept clean of the evidence, you retreated to your room. The bed welcomed you like an old friend, and for the first time in a while, sleep came easily.

The morning light filtered through your curtains as you stepped out of your room, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. Would your older brother Andrew notice first? Would Dad say something? You were bracing for anger, disappointment—anything but silence. Anxiety churned in your stomach like a storm, but there was no turning back now.

You shuffled into the kitchen. You kept your head down, avoiding the weight of their eyes. Andrew was already at the table, scrolling on his phone, while your dad stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

Andrew was the first to notice. His head snapped up, and his brows furrowed slightly before his expression softened into something unreadable. “Whoa,” he said, setting his phone down. “You, uh... cut your hair?”