One. Standing in the women's bathroom, folding a paper towel that resembles the texture of my callused skin. Two. Holding an Arizona Tea in a gas station where the air coats bottles of Advil and bags of gummy worms with sheets of dust. Three. Every single day for the rest of my life.

I came out to my family when I was twelve years old. This statement, more often than not, tends to be received with palms awkwardly rubbing together and a sarcastic whisper: “That explains the hair.” We grow up learning that different is okay. We are eased into the idea of uniqueness the same way we dip our toes into the water to test it. But some of us get shoved in unexpectedly.

Trying to remember to swim, I stare into the wells of my eyes until they begin to echo – and the echoes grow into sounds of wine glasses crashing onto a hardwood floor, exposing my bravery for the costume that it is. One, two, three rules to remember: chin up, jaw clenched, shoulders back. Let no being question your audacity. On the somber days I have to be strong, right? Strong, because that's who I am. Strong, because that's what people need me to be.

Strong, because one: the feeling of that textured paper towel as a little girl tugs on her mother's skirt, motioning toward me, saying, “Mommy, what's that boy doing in the girls' room?” The mom looks at me and says, “I don't know, sweetie.”

Strong, because two: the sheets of dust and stench of gasoline as a man with decades of oil on his beard mutters “fag” and spits on the toes of my shoes.

And three: the never-ending anxiety that flows through my veins when a substitute teacher calls roll and doesn't know whether to believe me when I raise my hand in response to “Emma.”

That lifelessness that crawls up the back of my throat when I hand security my passport with a picture of me with star-crossed eyes and hair down to my elbows. The lifelessness that returns in job interviews, first days of school, restaurants, and every last interaction with a stranger. The lifelessness that blankets my skin under the gaze of eyes that tell me I'm not human here.

Strong because that's the thing about echoes – they grow distant over time.

It's worth it. Even if you decide to sit back and tell me that it is a sin, a disgrace, a mentally disastrous choice that I have made, that you will do all you can to keep me from loving, laughing, and being, that I will never live a life fuller than yours. The most honest thing I can say to you is: one, two, three. Watch me.