I carry the corpse of my son, the son he once was. Geeky, funny, talented. He could build anything. I also carry the corpse of who he could have been.

I carry the corpse of the old me, so naive and purpose driven. I see old pictures of her and feel nothing but pity. She doesn't know what's about to happen to her life and everyone she loves.

I carry the corpse of our old marriage. We were playful, forward-looking, project driven. We're still married, but it's not the same marriage. We've been forced to witness each other being hurt beyond comprehension.

I carry the corpses of all the relationships that have been broken or just faded away because of trans.

These corpses I carry everywhere I go and follow me with every task: to the grocery store, while gardening, going for a walk, meeting with "after" friends (who know nothing of my grief). On the outside, I suppose I look normal. Most days I go about my life carrying these corpses. (What choice do I have?) And then there are days, even 7.5 years later, where the weight is just too much. And the tears flow. And the anger screams out. And then I get up, corpses still clinging to me, and go on.