What Lingers Beneath: Dreams, Dysphoria, and the Fight for Recognition

Processing the Weight of It All—Even in My Dreams

A lot has been going on recently, and for the most part, I thought I was handling it well. During the day, I feel fine. The constant barrage of anti-Trans rhetoric hasn’t visibly shaken me, and in fact, I’ve even reached a place of realization that has brought me a new level of peace:

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being born Trans.

Being Trans is as normal as being born cis, straight, left-handed, right-handed—it’s simply one of many natural variations in human existence. There is nothing broken about being Trans.

And yet… my dreams are telling me something else.

For the past few nights, I’ve been experiencing intensely dysphoric dreams.

The Dreams: A Subconscious Reckoning?

In my dreams, I’m dealing with some of the worst gender dysphoria I’ve had in years. I’m surrounded by people who seem like family, but in that dreamlike way, they’re not quite right. And suddenly, I’m trying to hide parts of myself.

In one dream, it was facial hair—something I would never leave the house with. I had major scruff, pulling my shirt up over my face, turning away from the person I was talking to, desperately trying to disguise it.

In another, it was my voice. I know my voice is more masculine-sounding, and I’ve gone back and forth on whether I want to change it. Is it laziness? Fear of failing? I don’t know. But in this dream, my voice was the source of immediate misgendering. It was inescapable.

I wake up feeling fine. But clearly, something is going on under the surface. So I started asking myself—what’s triggering this?

Returning to Scotland: The Weight of the Past

In just a few days, my wife and I are traveling to Scotland, and it’s been six years since I was last there—when my mum died.

That trip was different. I was playing down my Transness, trying not to make things harder than they already were. I even wore a damn sports bra all day, every day, just to minimize visible signs of my transition. I was misgendered quite a bit,by many people who hadn’t seen me in years, as well as people I'd never met.

And at the time, I told myself: Fair enough. It’s been years since they’ve seen me. It’ll take time for them to adjust.

I chose to suppress myself for the sake of that visit, but that didn’t make it feel good. And maybe my subconscious is dredging all of that back up—reminding me of what I endured, making me wonder if I’ll have to do it again.

The act of hiding facial hair in my dream could be symbolic of the way I had to hide parts of myself to make things easier. Even though I wouldn’t do that now, the feeling of needing to adjust myself for others' comfort is still lingering.

And then there’s my voice.

Last time I was in Scotland, on the days I did present fully female, I still got misgendered—because of my voice. No matter what I wore, how I carried myself, the moment I spoke, people reverted to “he.” Maybe my subconscious remembers that more than I do.

Maybe my mind is preparing me for the possibility that it will happen again.

Unfinished Business: My Uncle, My Mum, and the Echoes of the Past

Then there’s my uncle. I recently heard that his health isn’t what it once was, and that news hit me harder than I expected.

Maybe because it reminds me of how I found out about my mum’s health—right at the very end.

I didn’t get the warning signs. No one told me how bad it was until she was already in the hospital, already on death’s door. And all I could do was get there in time to watch her die.

There were no final conversations. No real closure. Nothing resolved.

We still talked every two weeks, but after I came out, it was all surface-level. The deeper relationship we once had? Gone. And now, with my uncle’s health declining, it feels like history repeating itself. Another family member slipping away before anything can be said.

And that’s hard. Really hard.

The Name Issue: A Compromise That Never Ended

Six years ago, I compromised with my family.

I understood that they had called me by my birth name for 40 years. I knew that adjusting would take time. So we settled on “G.” A middle ground. A temporary placeholder.

And yet, here we are—six years later—and they still haven’t fully transitioned to my actual name.

My name is only three letters. It doesn’t need to be shortened. It’s not a nickname. And yet, “G” remains.

And I get it—change takes time. It’s hard to unlearn habits. But at some point, I have to wonder: Is it just about habit, or is it because Gia is a feminine name?

I don’t believe most of my family is being intentionally dismissive. I truly think it’s just something that has stuck because that’s what happens when people get comfortable. But the truth is, it does matter.

Names are powerful. They’re an acknowledgment of who someone is. And after all these years, I’d love to finally hear mine.

America’s Anti-Trans Barrage & Trump’s Latest Attack

And then, on top of all this personal turmoil, there’s the unrelenting assault on Trans people in America.

Trump’s latest executive order—“Keeping Men Out of Women’s Sports”—is yet another blatant, discriminatory attack. The title itself is a misgendering insult, and the order itself is built on misinformation and outright lies.

The obsession with Trans women’s genitals is beyond creepy. The entire argument is based on bad science—a grotesque oversimplification of biology that ignores how hormones actually impact the body.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just about sports.

This is about defining sex and gender strictly by birth assignment—a precedent that can (and will) be used to legally erase Trans identities in other areas.

Final Thoughts: The Weight of It All

So yeah. It’s a lot. More than I realized.

Maybe my brain is working through all of this in my dreams because it’s the only time it can—when I’m not actively shoving it down just to function.

Between the upcoming trip, the unresolved grief, the endless anti-Trans attacks, and the sheer stupidity of it all… it’s no wonder my subconscious is working overtime.

Because there are days—many days—when I despair at just how much ignorance and bigotry is running unchecked. The erasure happening right now—against Trans people, women, minorities—is not subtle.

They are deliberately scrubbing us out of public life. And no one seems to be paying attention.

Just like what happened in Nazi Germany.