Tapping into the lifechanging potential of intentional storytelling

Transcriber: Eema Zaidi
Reviewer: David DeRuwe

22 years ago, I went
through a gender transition.

For the decade that followed,

fear drove me to put
a great deal of effort

into hiding that specific
part of my history.

I feared that knowledge of this
would lead to unemployment

or, at best, hinder my career progression.

In the doctor’s office,
I withheld this information

for fear of disrespectful
or refusal of treatment.

My social identity was a delicate
act that I played out

for fear of being treated
differently or excluded.

I also presented a heavily curated version
of myself to romantic suitors

to avoid being fetishized
or experiencing other forms of violence.

Keeping my secret was emotionally taxing
and damaging to my self-esteem.

Despite this, as a naturally
private person,

I planned to live this way indefinitely,
relying on daily alcohol to unwind.

One single action caused me
to consider a new way forward.

Without my consent, my past
was broadcast on social media

with specific negative language used
to alienate me from my online friends.

I felt betrayed.

My right to choose how and when

to disclose this deeply
personal information

had been taken away from me.

I was also terrified
of unknowable consequences.

This situation occurred
for the same reason I lived in hiding:

the world’s stereotyped view
of transgender people

as revolting, deceitful predators,
unworthy of love.

When my personal information
was distributed,

I possessed a tool that I could use
to fight this stereotype .

That tool was intentional storytelling,
known also as a “parable” or “fable.”

Intentional storytelling
goes beyond entertainment

to convey a specific
moral lesson or belief.

My introduction to the concept
was in the church where I was raised.

Although I didn’t personally
connect with Bible stories,

I could see their value.

I found this method of conveying ideas
easier than standard conversation,

so I quickly learned
to create my own stories.

As my sense of identity evolved,
so did my storytelling ability.

With the motivation and writing skills
required to take back my narrative,

I began to share my story.

The process revealed truths
about my place in the world,

which, in turn, allowed me to build
deeper connections for a better life,

though at a cost.

It is important to note

that I received
a lot of hate for doing so,

but for two reasons, I will not
focus on that hate in this talk:

The pain it would cause me
is not worth any potential benefit,

and at this time in history,

there is a more pressing need
for positive stories and role models.

I started out by making YouTube videos,

so that people could see
and hear me as a woman first

before learning
of my less typical journey.

In the videos, I offered
very little information

because I was still
the very private person

who had lived most of her life in secret.

Essentially, I told the audience
that I’d been through a gender transition,

it was none of their business,

and they should treat me
as a typical woman.

Unfortunately, my videos raised
more questions than they answered.

Growing tired of viewers
expressing curiosity,

I took down the videos and attempted
to return to my former secretive life.

Over the course of a few months,

it became apparent that it
was no longer possible for me

to live as I had before.

In both my social life and at work,

I was continually
approached with questions

by people with secondhand information
about my gender history.

Then it happened while I was drinking
socially with colleagues after work:

In my drunken state,

I allowed my accumulated anger
to be released unfiltered.

Fearing a future of similar
drunken reactions or worse,

I decided to take back my story

and answer the questions
I have been asked most frequently.

With an extensive number
of questions to answer,

I abandoned videos
in favor of an open letter.

I carefully considered
the specific language I used

and mentally prepared myself
for possible backlash.

I also gave thought to the boundaries
I wanted to create and enforce.

At first, I shared the letter
only with a select audience

that I knew would respond well.

I progressively widened the audience

until the letter was available, public,
to anyone at any time to stumble across.

As my audience widened, I was frustrated
to be faced with even deeper questions.

It became apparent that, although they
now had a guide to being respectful,

many people still couldn’t understand
how it felt to grow up

with a gender that was different
from their sex assigned at birth.

It also became apparent
that people wanted to understand.

With so much already out in the open,

it seemed a small step forward

to write a detailed, first person
novella of my early life.

It was painful to write
about the cause of shame and ridicule,

but for the purpose, it felt worthwhile.

For many readers
of my newly published memoir,

I was the only known point of contact

for related information,
advice, and support.

What this meant

was that I became inundated
with social media messages

or from people who wanted me
to inform, advise, or support them.

For a while, I tried to help
everyone who asked;

however, I soon realized there would
always be someone who was willing for me

to prioritize their time
and energy over mine.

To salvage some privacy and avoid burnout,

I was able to use intentional storytelling

to articulate healthy boundaries
to an audience who didn’t understand

the cumulative emotional toll
of their requests.

Years passed, and negative responses
to my identity decreased,

yet my emotional response
to any mention of the topic

was still as if I was being ridiculed.

Reflecting on my intentional stories,

I realized a pervasive message
taken on in childhood

that had been affirmed
through books and other forms of media.

Transgender characters were depicted
as morally wrong, broken, or disgusting.

I saw nothing of romance, but plenty
of dehumanizing sexual content.

Their trauma-filled stories ended

either with a stealthy transition
or premature death.

The message I took from this

was that I could only live a good life
if I hid my trans identity.

Acknowledging this allowed me
to purposefully tell new stories

to directly oppose this message.

My stories also highlighted

a power imbalance that existed
in every relationship in my life.

Trying to make up for my identity,

I realized I’d been supercharging
any behavior, interest, or self-expression

that I thought was feminine
and actively moderating the masculine.

Little by little, I’ve made changes
to find my best fit.

I ditched my heels to live in boots,

my handbag to carry a backpack,

and no longer felt pressured
to attend gendered social events

or modify my appearance to meet a standard
that aligns with someone else’s values.

There have been
far greater benefits, though.

After my gender transition,

there were people who caused me
to stress in every interaction

because they couldn’t
understand who I was,

and they were not open to learning.

The way I’ve shared my story allowed me
to build a solid support network of people

who understand and respect me
as a whole person.

In terms of health care,

for many years I convinced myself
that my gender history had no relevance.

Writing intentionally
about this aspect of life

helped me realize that I lacked
the medical education to make this call.

These days, my regular doctors
are equipped with my full story.

I understand that if it is ever relevant,
there will be no time lost,

no stress added, as I work out when
and how best to disclose this information.

Just three years ago, I had the courage
and self-awareness required

to write an authentic dating app bio.

It included my history
of gender transition

as just one of many small pieces
that came together

to create a complete human being
that is a sober, bubbly,

compassionate storyteller
who loves dressmaking

and lived for years
without fixed address as a pet sitter.

This helped draw in a partner who learned
to love and respect me as a whole person.

We were also able
to use intentional storytelling

to introduce me to their family
in a way that answered potential questions

and articulated firm boundaries
for discussion of my gender.

Having held the long term belief

that I could either be loved
or open about my past,

this unexpected benefit of love

was worth every associated cost
of telling my story.

If there’s a single idea
I’d like you to take from this talk,

it’s that intentional storytelling
has the power to counter bias perception

and build deeper connections
to improve your life.

The stories we see, hear, and tell
reinforce perception of us,

not just by others but also ourselves.

If you are often misunderstood,

I urge you to examine how people
like you are represented in stories.

If you are not represented, consider this:

representation begins
with someone telling theirs.

And if you are misrepresented, with many
people using intentional storytelling,

representation will improve.

Thank you.

(Applause)