I was assigned male at birth in 1962. For decades, I wore that shell like well-cut armor—husband, father, scientist, teacher. Every chapter looked good from the outside and even internally to me: a marriage built on love, a family I still cherish, a career I poured my whole heart into. On the surface, I seemed at home. But somewhere quieter, under the skin, something was always waiting. Watching. Longing to exhale.
It started as a restlessness—a ghost touch at the edge of my heart. At first, I reached for small, secret things. Clear nail polish some days; the cool weight of a stud earring; clothes just soft and fluid enough to hint at possibility. No one said a word. On those days, the world kept turning. But inside, I was opening—a secret bloom.
With glacial slowness, I grew more femme. Months of agony over choosing almost clear nail polish with an almost invite touch of pink. Tiny hoop earrings. More feminine colored shirts. My heart and mind grew, too.
Ten months ago, this quiet call became a tidal wave. I could not keep it contained. I told my close friends and LGBTQ+ friends, then my wife, my children. It was terrifying and I wasn't sure I believed it. I started letting the mask slip with more friends, with colleagues, finding myself surprised at each moment of kindness or, sometimes, silence. Every conversation was a collision—heart racing, hands shaking, voice breaking toward the truth. But then, after, I would feel my jaw unclench, my body settle, and for a moment, the universe would go silent and wide. I breathed out, and it was my own name on the exhale.
This is me. Her name - MY name - is Krista.
I haven't started hormones and I rarely express the way I want to, with breast forms, skirts, and wigs. Sometimes I still flinch at old doubt. But there is a new current thrumming underneath it all—something true. Sometimes I am terrified, sometimes giddy as a teenager, sometimes just so soft I want to cry for both the fear of what's next and for the miracle of finding my own skin, at last.
I'm tired of hiding. This blog is the opposite of hiding. This is where I let you—and myself—see Krista, not just in milestones and bold steps, but in the tiny, ordinary moments: the right shade of lipstick, the swing of earrings, the sound of my own laughter in a room where I am no longer alone.
I use she/they pronouns. I don't have everything figured out, not by a long shot. But I do know: every day I choose truth, my world gets bigger, softer, wilder, and more possible.
Here is what it feels like—moment by moment, breath by breath—to become.
