The Body Knows

It’s strange, isn’t it—how we can tell when a single strand of hair, not our own, clings to our skin. It’s weightless, nearly imperceptible, yet our nerves tingle with its foreignness.
Our brain maps us so thoroughly, so intimately, that even the smallest inconsistency sounds an alarm. Like the brush of a spider leg on bare skin, we react before we can think. Instinct kicks in. We swat it away, we shiver, we know it doesn’t belong. It’s not logic—it’s survival.

That’s embodiment. Not something mystical—something primal. Animal.
We know where we end and the world begins. We know when something is on us, and when something is not us.
We know our bodies—not because we looked in a mirror, but because we live inside them.

So when I say something is missing between my legs, I don’t mean it metaphorically.
I mean it the way you’d know if a finger went numb, or a tooth fell out, or your voice came out of someone else’s mouth.

And when I say my breasts felt foreign, I don’t mean because of some ideology.
I mean because they felt like someone else’s hair stuck to my skin. Wrong. Not-mine. Extra.

This isn’t about wanting to be something I’m not.
It’s about knowing—on that same electric, skin-prickling level you do—this isn’t the shape I’m supposed to be.
That I was touched by something that never belonged to me.

The tragedy isn’t that I’m trans.
The tragedy is that people believe this knowledge—the innate, animal certainty of self—is something only they are allowed to have.
That only their bodies get to be mapped with precision. Their discomforts validated. Their boundaries understood without question.

They’ve never had to explain how they know what feels wrong.

Most cis men walk through the world expecting others to move around him—never once questioning whether he belongs, whether he fits, whether his presence needs explaining.

But when we—those of us who are trans—say this is not me, suddenly it becomes philosophy. Politics. Delusion. Theory.
Suddenly, our skin is up for debate.

They forget—or refuse to see—that we are made of the same stuff: nerves, memory, instinct.
That we, too, know the shape of ourselves. That our bodies, too, protest when something foreign tries to pass as truth.
We don’t want to be trans the way they think—we are. In the same way they are.

The difference isn’t our humanity.
The difference is in their refusal to see ours.

Cis women, though—they know what it’s like to be told their instincts are wrong.
To be scrutinized. Picked apart.
To have laws passed "for their safety" that somehow still leave them vulnerable—less safe, less free.

They know what it’s like to be stripped of bodily autonomy under the guise of protection.

Because those laws don’t protect women. They protect power.
They use cis women’s safety as a shield to justify controlling everyone else—especially trans people, especially trans women—while quietly failing to offer cis women any real security.

They criminalize presence instead of preventing harm.
They legislate fear instead of investing in care.

Trans people and cis women have more in common than we’re told.
We’re both treated as if our bodies are public property—open to commentary, control, and correction.

The only ones who never have to explain themselves are the ones already believed.

Because that’s what these policies are—foreign hairs tangled in the body of society.
They don’t belong to the people they claim to protect.
They don’t soothe. They irritate.

They cling to our most vulnerable parts and make it impossible to rest easy in ourselves.
They are wrong. Not-ours. Extra.

And just like that stray strand—or the sudden tickle of a spider leg against your skin—our bodies know.
They tense. They flinch. They sound the alarm.

So when we speak up—when we say this isn’t right, this doesn’t belong—we’re not making noise.
We’re responding to a disturbance in the map of the self.

We’re doing what all bodies do when something foreign presses in:
We resist.
We speak.
We try to remove what never should’ve been there in the first place.

The body knows.
And it’s time we started listening.

 

 

Why I Wrote This

I wrote this piece because I wanted to bridge a gap—a gap of understanding that often exists between cis and trans people when it comes to embodiment. So much of the conversation around gender identity gets bogged down in theory, politics, or language that feels abstract and clinical. But for many of us, being trans isn’t abstract at all. It’s something we feel on a cellular level. Our bodies map themselves, and when something doesn’t belong, we know it—just like anyone else would. That’s not philosophy. That’s survival.

I also wrote this for the people who are still questioning, still wondering if they’re “trans enough” to claim that truth. If you’ve ever doubted your own instincts because you didn’t see your experience reflected in the loudest voices or most visible stories—I hope this makes you feel seen. Your body knows. You don’t need to perform pain or pass a purity test to be valid.

If this resonates with you, that’s enough.