Who’s Really Confused?
“When I was a toddler, you mistook me for a girl—so you called me a girl.
When I was a kid, you said I was too girly to be a boy—so you called me a girl.
When I was a teen, you saw me hanging out with the girls—so you called me a girl.
My entire life, you told me I was a girl. Not once did you call me a boy. Not once did you question it.
And now, as an adult, when I tell you I am not a boy, suddenly, you insist on calling me one.
You refuse to believe me. You reject what I know to be true about myself. And yet, somehow, you have the nerve to say I am the one who is confused.”
But let’s talk about confusion for a second. Because it’s not coming from me. It’s coming from a society so obsessed with rigid categories that it refuses to acknowledge the simple truth: we know ourselves better than anyone else ever could.
From the moment we are born, society is ready with its labels. Pink or blue. Boy or girl. Strong or delicate. Logical or emotional. Everything carefully sorted into neat little boxes, designed to tell us who we are before we even get the chance to figure it out for ourselves.
And if we don’t fit? If we color outside the lines? If we say, actually, that’s not me?
We become the problem. We’re told we’re confused. That we’re making things up. That we’re going through a phase, seeking attention, or trying to be special. Anything to avoid the truth that has always been there: we are who we say we are.
I was never confused. I have always known who I am. The only difference is that now, I refuse to let anyone else define me.
The real confusion belongs to those who spent years calling me a girl, only to turn around and insist I must be a boy. Those who can only understand identity through the narrow definitions they were given, rather than through the lived experiences of real people.
I was never confused. You just refused to see me.
But here I am. And I will not disappear just because I make you uncomfortable.
