Gimo, Los Angeles, CA, @i_am_gimo -
‘My mother raised me in dresses, blouses, and long hair. I was her only daughter, a mirror of herself. Her Gabriella.
She showed her love by sharing womanhood, but it never quite made sense to me. I resented being told who I was before I knew myself, hiding how I truly felt.
This summer, home in Chicago for two weeks, I decided to come out to her as trans non binary. We sat separated, her on the couch, me curled up on the lazy boy across the living room.
I confessed how I don’t see the girl she dressed like a JCPenny catalogue when I look in the mirror. I see a hard jaw. Soft scarred lips. Restless hair. Dark strong features celebrated on my brother and father. How it hurt when after I buzzed my long hair she would only tell me she missed it long, how beautiful I used to be.
She lived as a woman. I lived as someone in between.
Mom told me she loved me no matter what, though I could feel her holding something back, thoughts trailing off, opting to change the subject. I don’t expect her to ever fully understand, and that’s okay. She’s still my mom and I’m her child. That kind of love never fades.’