Guest Blog: ¡Seguimos Aquí! Growing Up Trans in Puerto Rico

It has been 12 years since I socially transitioned, 10 years since I started testosterone, and 8 years since my top surgery. It's wild to write that sentence!

Back then, in the rural Puerto Rican municipality where I grew up, there wasn't much information about people like me, little trans visibility, and no access to care focused on gender affirmation. Today, some struggles have eased, others are the same, and new ones have come to be… but my bet will always be on my beautiful trans community!

Something Different Inside

Let's start at the beginning. In the mid-'90s, my parents had a healthy and wonderful kid: me! I did what kids do—I was myself, unapologetically. I was drawn to games, toys, clothes, and roles that society considered "masculine." Up to that point, nothing was out of the ordinary. After all, what's considered "feminine" or "masculine" is socially constructed. It only meant that other people boxed my interests that way, and I was unbothered, because I had yet to learn those social expectations.

But that wasn't the full picture. From a very young age, there was something different inside. I had never been exposed to anything trans-related, so I couldn't truly capture my experience until I had the vocabulary for it. It was as if my mind and body could not agree on how to perceive my own body. The best way I can describe it is an ongoing, localized tension toward certain sex-related characteristics that registered as foreign. It was lifelong and persistent. If anything, that sense of incongruence grew as I got older.

I even tried to compensate by switching my interests to things considered more "feminine." That helped with stress—I was targeted less, and that felt good—but it didn't resolve the inner mind-body experience of it all. I felt alone and out of place. Nobody seemed to experience what I had experienced for so long.

Finding the Words—and Finding Alignment as a Family

I remember how relieving and terrifying it was to come across information about what it meant to be trans, what gender dysphoria was, and that gender-affirming care existed. I remember thinking that I was not alone, and that reassured me. I also remember being terrified by the idea of bringing it up. It would take about a year before I told my parents what was going on and what I had found.

In what might seem like an ironic twist to many, it was a combination of faith and knowledge that pushed my parents to challenge their own beliefs. In the end, they found alignment in accepting what being trans meant, and they became open to listening to my doctors and understanding my medical journey.

Since then, I've had separate conversations with each of them, and they share one observation: I changed for the better after gender-affirming care. The outcomes convinced my parents that we had made the right medical choice. I seemed brighter, more talkative, more driven… "healthy and wonderful," just as they knew me to be the day they first held me.

Not Transformed, but Resolved

For me, every step forward in aligning my body with my inner sense of self decreased that tension. I wasn't "transformed." I was, in a way, resolved. The more congruence I felt, the less I thought about it, and the more mental space I had to focus on family, academics, friendships, love… living! The more comfortable I felt, the more I simply did the things I wanted, regardless of how others boxed them gender-wise.

Oh, and a top memory for sure: the first time my bare chest felt the warm Caribbean Sea, and the sun soaked into my skin without a single thought intruding into my space. By now, my body has forgotten the pain and heat that once came with binding. What a delightful and privileged sensation (or lack thereof?).

Education as My Compass

If I had to name one thing that saved my family and me, it was—and continues to be—education. My family has always been a testament to trying to do and be better than the generation before, and to making the most of the resources at hand. That was the compass of my journey: understanding myself, and understanding my family's own journey of transitioning alongside me.

Education was the tool that led me to other tools, and at times, to creating them when there were no other options. While still a student, I co-created an LGBTQIA+ student organization as an undergrad and created an LGBTQIA+ elective course in graduate school. Along the way, I learned that my sillita de playa (beach chair) could come with me and be placed at any table.

Joy That Stood Tall

A lot happened around me during my medical journey. From public humiliation to difficulties accessing resources, my joy stood tall against the pushback. I didn't know how many emotional resources a person could have when their mind and body work together, and that helped me endure.

(This isn't to excuse the negative things that happened. I was simply grateful for the newfound inner strength to push back against problems that need outside solutions. Please don't confuse a bandage with the cure.)

Meanwhile, my Puerto Rican reality didn't pause in a vacuum. Hurricanes, collective colonial struggles, power outages, austerity measures, earthquakes, a pandemic… you find ways to keep moving. For many trans Puerto Ricans, this has also meant unique difficulties accessing care and other essential resources.

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You

Many people transitioned with me, and that is a huge privilege. Nobody can carry all of your burdens, but collective joy has a way of bringing lightness. I didn't know how many emotional resources a person could preserve when others bear witness to their story, and then do something.

To the doctors and nurses who continued to heal my inner turmoil and that of others.

To Point of Pride, who remembered that Puerto Rico is America too—before Benito (Bad Bunny) gave the whole world that reminder on the Super Bowl stage. I will never forget that they allowed me to apply for financial aid while living in Puerto Rico, at a time when I had nowhere else to turn and so many U.S. "national" grants didn't include us.

To the local community organizations and innovators who continue to transform spaces and policy, so that my story isn't the only story of success.

To my family, my mentors, and my chosen family (a.k.a. the best of friends), who years later would witness my union to the most beautiful bride…

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

¡Seguimos Aquí!

Today? Today I sign off as Dr. David, having completed graduate school, and hopeful that, as history shows, we will continue to exist. I stand on the shoulders of those who came before me. I stand embraced by the hands that continue to walk with me. I stand with the generations to come.

Whoever you are, reading this… I see you.

To my trans Puerto Rican siblings: ¡Seguimos aquí! (We're still here!)