BEGIN AGAIN is a series of A+ personal essays running in the first half of November 2023 where writers were asked to explore a transition, a move, grief, a breakup, repeating patterns or breaking patterns, cycles and rebirth, remaking yourself, or laying out plans for the future while standing in the ashes of something you thought was forever. And wow, how they responded. We hope you enjoy these vulnerable, sensitive, always deep but sometimes surprisingly funny works, and we’re grateful for your support that allows us to continue to publish new work from our community. These essays and paying queer and trans writers for their work are things that are made possible by A+ members like you. Queer media isn’t free to make, and we’re now and always grateful that you’re an A+ member.

-Nico

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I headed to Salthill for my first post-op swim on July 28th, 2023. I had top surgery earlier this year, in April. I waited three months to get back to the waves. I had gotten the thing I wanted for so long, but there are things about recovery that you can’t really prepare for. When I thought about being shirtless on the beach or in the water for the first time it was fear that came first, rather than excitement. I didn’t want anyone to look at me and recognize me as “other”. I didn’t want anyone to look at me at all. My scars are still quite raised and red, a clear indicator of difference.

***I always say that I love being trans. It’s given me something to not only live for, but to fight for. It has given me community and taught me self love. On the days I need it most, it gives me courage. The water gives me courage too. The shame that sometimes materialises is not mine, it didn’t come from me. I can choose to ignore it, and on that day, I did. I found a free spot, set up my belongings, and changed into my swimsuit. It’s a Friday afternoon, not too busy, there are a few older regulars braving the cold. I turned to face the water, arms folded across my chest at first. Old habits die hard. I brought them down to my sides and allowed the cool sea breeze to meet this new body. I could smell the salt in the air and it propelled me forward. The tide was out, giving me plenty of time to brace for the cold on my walk down. I dodged pebbles and piles of red seaweed as I went and tried to immerse myself in my surroundings to distract myself from how nervous I was. The voices of the people out walking along the promenade behind me carried on the wind interspersed with the occasional bark from a dog excited to meet new friends. There are several beaches along the Salthill prom, but I choose Ladies’ Beach for the friendliness of the community of swimmers there. I’m also motivated by the little coffee hut to the left of the beach that makes the best chai lattes in Galway, in my opinion. I looked forward to sitting in the changing area after my swim warming my hands on the cup. My whole body tensed as I walked down to the sea, but it moved in the right direction. Towards the scary thing.

I’ve always loved the water. Before top surgery, when my discomfort with my body was at an all time high, swimming was the one thing I could do that gave me a sense of freedom. It felt safe to connect to my body in an environment where I could be weightless and enjoy moving with ease. I could be held by something when I was too self conscious to be touched by other people. I learned to swim in the pool at a hotel gym near the house I grew up in. My father taught me, prompted by an incident on a family holiday when I decided to launch myself into an outdoor pool. I don’t remember this happening, but the story has been told by various family members throughout the years. In some versions I’m pulled out laughing, in others my lips are blue and I’ve stopped breathing. The detail that never changes is the most important one: it wasn’t accidental. It was a choice. Of course, I recognize the danger, but there’s also a glimmer of pride when I think of the courage of baby me hurtling towards the scary thing.

My father was a kind, patient and practical man, and I was a fast learner. I would doggy paddle laps of the pool with armbands on while his steady hands held me up, and he walked alongside me. All of a sudden, he would let go and leave me flailing. We did this until his absence didn’t scare me anymore. The water held me up and took the place of his stabilising hands. When he died, I didn’t cry, the tears held in out of sheer stubbornness, or shock, or maybe both. The flood came later.

I am hard on myself for all the things I don’t remember. The day he told me about his cancer, I was sat in the living room, armchair pulled up close to the television. Try as I might, I don’t recall what I was watching. He came in from the kitchen and asked to speak to me. For some reason, instead of getting up and just turning my body, I went to the trouble of turning the chair all the way around to face him. I sometimes have a habit of making things harder than they have to be and I think this is something that frustrates people about me, but at that moment my father didn’t ask me why I bothered turning the chair, he just watched, and then we were face to face. Something in his tone or expression must have communicated the seriousness of the situation. This is where I get stuck. I can’t remember the conversation, I only have fragments of him. When I want to hear him crystal clear I think of one particular pun that always cracked him up. Whenever someone would ask him if he was alright, he would reply “No, I’m half left.” The answer’s objectively hilarious, but not helpful to me now while I try to recall the conversation that completely altered my life.

During one particular session with a therapist, we agreed to try an exercise where a chair would be placed near me. I would need to try to visualise my Dad sitting in this chair and speak to him as if he were really there. I directed my eyes to where I thought his head would likely be and tried to imagine his face, the signature gap in between his two front teeth that I loved so much. I could summon the fragments. I could imagine the clothes he might wear, and the way he would sit. Fingers coming together in a steeple and resting on his stomach, legs crossed at the ankles. I have all these different parts of him but I can’t put them together to form a clear picture of what he would look like sitting in front of me in that room, at that time. He’s an unfinished puzzle, still. I can’t get him out of my head and onto the chair. “Can you see him?” she asked me. “Are you finding this difficult?”.

To prepare for top surgery, I set up a gofundme to help with the costs. Thanks to the kindness and generosity of friends, family and community, I was able to crowdfund about half. I needed ten thousand euro in total. I took out a loan and reached the important adult milestone of getting into debt. The standard of trans healthcare in Ireland currently is extremely poor and many of us are forced to travel abroad for treatment. I chose a surgeon in Manchester, England, and added the cost of flights, accommodation, and food for two weeks to the total. I could handle the practical side of things, a handy list of bullet points that could be checked off upon completion. Once all the necessary financial, travel and accommodation plans were put in place there was nothing left to do but wait and reflect.

The grief I had (semi) successfully avoided for years found me. It was monsoon season. Despite the fact that I was surrounded by friends who loved me, and continue to love me, in surprising, beautiful ways, I felt alone. I wanted my father and his stabilising hands. I wanted him to know the name I chose for myself and to hear him say it. In reality, I have no idea how he would have reacted to my coming out. Sometimes I look back and conclude that all the signs were there and he must have known. Then I remember that I didn’t know until my mid twenties and it humbles me. What are “the signs” anyway? They only became clear to me with the gift of hindsight.

I’ve rehearsed the conversation in my head many times but I never get very far. I have no idea how I would attempt to explain my identity to him, when it doesn’t make much sense to me, either, most of the time. I’m not his daughter. I never grew into a woman. I’m not a man, but I could have been his son so easily. He knew me as a child who loved to swim, hated maths, and had an answer for everything. I held on to two out of three.

I could not accept that he would never know me as the truest, most authentic version of myself. I wanted this so desperately that I rewrote history and altered my entire belief system. I started to reject linear time and force belief in an afterlife. I spent hours stuck in March 2008, at the hospice, attempting to communicate to him everything he needed to know in the last squeeze of his hand or kiss on his forehead. In reality, I remember very little about that day he died. The weird, musty smell of the hospice. It was always too hot. My aunt and I were sitting in a communal area with sofas and a small television set. The room had clean, linoleum flooring that was a pretty aquamarine colour. Like the sea, sometimes. We were watching an episode of Desperate Housewives. For the longest time I was convinced it was “Boom Crunch”, the plane crash episode (every good TV show has a plane crash episode). I researched it for this essay, and realised that episode aired in 2009, so it couldn’t have been the one we were watching. I find myself reluctant to let go of this detail; it’s become an important part of the story, something that could transport me to the past. I convinced myself that watching it would bring back all the missing pieces. It didn’t work. I waited too long to grieve and the memories got lost. He did not know my name, and unless I can pull off an Interstellar level miracle using the power of love, he never will. I left him there in the past, and flew across the sea towards my future.

When I thought about how to describe my first time back in the water post-surgery, I knew I would struggle and words may fail me. I turn to people far more skilled than I for help. The first time I heard boygenius’ song “Anti-Curse” I knew it would stay with me for a long time. In particular, the last three lines of verse two:

“I’m swimming back
See, you don’t have to make it bad
Just ‘cause you know how”

The cold water shock brought me back to life instantly and I wondered what I had been so afraid of. I remembered that this is what I loved to do. I dunked my head beneath the waves and felt overwhelming gratitude for my body, my life, and for the man who devoted so much time to making a home for me, in and out of the water. I find it unfair that there was not much I was able to teach him in return. I am learning new things about my identity and position in the world as a queer, trans person every day. I would have loved the opportunity to figure it out with him. That day, during the exercise in my therapist’s office I only managed to mumble my way through a few cliché sentences. “Well, yes, I’m using a different name and I might look a bit different but I’m still the same person you’ve always known”. She asked me what I imagined he might say back to me. I replied that I didn’t know, but after some gentle nudging I eventually settled on something along the lines of “Well, he did love me and I imagine he wouldn’t mind as long as I was happy.”

***And I was. I stayed submerged for just a little too long, as usual, to let the cold take root in my bones. I realised that this is how I could keep him with me and make space for him in my new life, by making time to enjoy the things that we did together. I’ve already conquered his sense of humour, and every time I successfully coax an eye roll out of someone with a top tier pun, I know he would be proud. I listen to his favourite music and sing along, badly. I bring others to the water with me and find joy in sharing the gift he gave me.