There is an anxiety that I feel viscerally in all of my senses with introductions. The idea of being perceived, a fear of being unseen, and a yielding of my agency over my own identity, are ghosts of the past that still haunt me whenever I introduce myself. I started my intentional “becoming” journey, more widely known as transitioning, two years ago. I was still a student in my physical therapy program, about to graduate in 2021 and on my final two clinical rotations in Seattle and Buffalo.

Healthcare was always a hard place for me to feel comfortable. When I first went to see a doctor for depression and anxiety, I was told that I was “lying and manipulating questionnaire scores.” When I went to see a neuropsychologist for ADHD and autism evaluations, I was told that I was “too social and smart to have either of these conditions, as it wouldn’t have been possible for me to complete a doctorate degree.” When I told a college counselor that I was having suicidal thoughts because I was having trouble with my gender identity, I was dismissed without a safety plan or follow up and told that I “couldn’t be helped for that here.” So, when I first publicly came out as trans, I did not have much hope that my circumstances would be any better.

I hadn’t given much of my emotional bandwidth toward the inconsistencies behind my earliest introductions, because I was in a job that required me to put others’ needs first, and I was living in a relatively conservative area. The misgendering and incorrect pronoun usage, the constant deadnaming, the hurtful comments about trans and queer people, the looks of confusion and distaste at my androgyny as I started testosterone, were all things I was accustomed to dealing with through dissociation and disconnect. I wanted to rush through the process of the physical changes so that I could finally move on and live in what I assumed was “normal” adult life, a cis-passing world. In doing so, I am only just now coming to terms with the tenderness that was always there amidst the fear, anger, frustration, and loneliness.

To my knowledge, I was the first queer and trans person to ever work with my clinical supervisor in Buffalo, my hometown. We fumbled so much together that winter in 2021, figuring out what pronouns felt right, how to introduce my name to patients, how to recover from the patients who knew my family and were confused by the sight of me, or those who didn’t want to enter this space of vulnerability with me and acknowledge my identity or feel comfortable working with me. I tried so hard to fold myself under the binary of male so that I could be read that way—take up space, lower my voice, avoid too much expression, wear only “masculine” colors.

Yet on the other end, I did the exact opposite with my extended family and network of friends. I wanted to be recognized as the same person that they have known their entire lives. I was afraid of being rejected by my parents permanently, so I only went by “J,” a nickname I was called growing up, never mentioned he/him pronouns, and was terrified of wearing anything “too masculine.” I wanted to protect my relationships so desperately that I was willing to risk my full authenticity. I wasn’t ready to stand confidently in my own light and celebrate in my joy that I’ve always been here, me, and the same person is still here.

I was a chameleon. Blending into whoever I needed to be so that people would accept me. I had concluded that acceptance was better than being seen, when I was just trying to survive an introduction that I knew was out of my power.

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I didn’t sleep at all the night before my meeting with my current boss. We had worked together in a sports and orthopedic clinic for three months in Seattle in fall of 2020 when I was on my second last clinical rotation as a graduate student, two months before I had come out. We had formed a strong relationship during my time in Seattle, and my clinic coworkers had become a community for me that welcomed me in the lonely, unpredictable, and daunting pandemic months. I wasn’t sure if I could emotionally handle another rejection from people I cared deeply about when I had already come out a few years ago as gay and witnessed multiple friendships and relationships end. Given my mental health was already suffering, I had anxiously configured every permutation of how I thought the conversation would go. I was ready for my job offer to be rescinded, my health benefits for trans affirming care to be denied, and I was preparing myself for losing more people for just trying to survive and be me. Up to this point, I believed there was no place for me as a whole, just the parts that were okay to display. I wasn’t sure if I was enough.

What I had not anticipated was my first introduction as John to be an exhale. To hear the words, “I love and value you for who you are, and I stand with you.” I don’t think I can ever possibly write how much that means to a trans person when they hear that. The relief to just be me, and that I will be protected when I show up as me.

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So each new introduction feels more and more like a gift—an opportunity for me to shine light on who I am becoming and honoring that journey. There are times where it lands and times where it still doesn’t. There are times where I leave out information for safety, and other times when I can be that source of safety for someone else like me. Some of my most rewarding work as a healthcare provider is when I can be a mirror for another patient—where I can reflect their image of themselves back in their direction. I hope my introductions can be an invitation to your best becoming. Let us heal together, let us see each other, let us take down these chameleon layers of our identities in order to make space for who is trying to make themselves known.

Let me introduce myself: my name is John Orie, and I am so happy to have arrived.

Dr. John Orie, PT, DPT, is a licensed physical therapist in Seattle, Washington. He earned his doctorate degree at Northwestern University and served as the Class of 2021 Diversity Committee Scholar. John is a queer-identifying trans man with a passion for bridging the gaps of accessibility in healthcare. He is an LGBTQIA+ and Disability affirming care provider, and believes in narrative medicine's ability to reimagine how providers care for their patients.