This is a fictional story based on countless real life personal stories I’ve heard over the years. If you enjoy this writing and the thousands I’ve posted, you can see more by searching my name on Amazon and audio versions on Audible. Thanks for your support.
I remember the day it all came crashing down like it was yesterday. It was my 45th birthday, and the sun was setting over our quiet suburban neighborhood, casting long shadows across the living room where Sarah and I sat. We’d been married for 20 years—high school sweethearts turned partners in crime, or so I thought. But lately, the crime felt like it was against myself.
My name is Alex, but deep down, I’ve always known there’s Elena inside me. She started as whispers in my teens—stolen moments trying on my sister’s dresses, feeling a rush of rightness that scared me senseless.
Over the years, those whispers grew into a roar I couldn’t ignore. I’d built a secret collection: silky blouses that hugged just right, heels that made me feel tall in a way height never could, makeup that transformed my face into something soft and alive. Elena wasn’t just a hobby; she was me, the part I’d buried under layers of “man up” and “be normal.”
Sarah knew about Elena. She’d caught me once, years ago, and after the initial shock, she tried. God, she tried. “I love you, Alex,” she’d say, “and if this makes you happy, we’ll figure it out.” But happiness for me meant change for her.
Date nights where I’d slip into a dress and we’d laugh over wine turned into quiet tensions. “I miss my husband,” she’d whisper sometimes, her eyes pleading for the man she married. I understood—how could I not? But understanding didn’t quiet the ache in my chest.
That birthday, it boiled over. I wanted to celebrate as Elena. Just once, fully, without hiding. “Why can’t you just be you?” Sarah snapped, tears in her eyes. “The you I fell in love with?” Her words hit like a gut punch. I felt like a monster, tearing our life apart for something society called a “phase” or worse. In a haze of anger and shame, I stormed upstairs and started purging.
Everything went. The emerald necklace that sparkled like my hidden dreams—trash. The red wig that framed my face so perfectly—gone. Dresses, skirts, lipstick palettes I’d spent hours choosing online, shoes that clicked with confidence I’d never felt as Alex—all into black garbage bags. Thousands down the drain, literally, as I hauled them to the curb. “This is it,” I told myself. “No more. Be normal. For her. For us.”
The next morning, the emptiness hit. It wasn’t just stuff I’d thrown away; it was Elena. Part of my soul, discarded like yesterday’s news. I went through the motions—work, dinner, TV with Sarah—but inside, I was hollow. Depression wrapped around me like a fog. Sleep evaded me; food tasted like ash. I’d stare at my reflection, seeing a stranger, and wonder if this was the “husband” Sarah wanted back. But he felt like a shell, cracked and crumbling.
Weeks blurred into months. Sarah noticed first. “Alex, you’re fading,” she said one night, her hand on mine. “This isn’t you either.” We talked—really talked. About the fear I’d carried since childhood, the societal hammer that pounded “boy” into every corner of my life. How I’d domesticated Elena, subdued her under norms that promised safety but delivered misery. “I thought purging would fix it,” I confessed, voice breaking. “But it’s like cutting off a limb. It hurts more without her.”
Sarah listened, her own tears falling. She admitted her fears too—the stares from friends, the “what ifs” about our future. But seeing me like this? It broke her more than Elena ever could. “I married you, all of you,” she said. “Let’s bring her back.”
Rebuilding Elena wasn’t easy. We started small—a new lipstick here, a thrift store dress there. Therapy helped, for both of us.
We battled the push-pull: nights where I’d retreat to Alex-mode to comfort her, mornings where Elena emerged, and we’d share coffee like old friends. But we were in a better place, stronger for the storm.
If you’re reading this and feeling that tug—the one that says “hide her, purge her, be safe”—know it’s the world’s voice, not yours. Society domesticate us from birth, making our truths feel wrong, illogical. But burying her? It only buries you alive. I’ve had friends purge once, twice, a dozen times, each cycle a war between heart and head.
The terrifying part is how long we can go without realizing we’re subdued, defending chains that choke our joy.
But here’s the light: if you’ve purged before, you’ll rise again. That femme fire inside? It’s eternal. Next time the urge hits, pause. Breathe. Don’t decide in the depths—wait for clearer skies. Ask yourself: Would the world, and I, be better if I set her free?
I did. And Elena? She’s here to stay. Be strong, sister. Your true self is waiting.
Dr. Gwen Patrone
