Why I’m Really Doing This

I keep stopping to ask myself—why am I doing this? Why put this out into the world? Do I really have the right to tell these stories, my parents' stories, my story? Does anyone even care?

I just published a post about my parents, and now I’m second-guessing it. I mean, they’re gone, but what right do I have to tell their story? My sister loved it, but that’s not enough to stop this feeling, this discomfort sitting with me. It’s personal. It feels weird, like I’m crossing a line I didn’t even know was there until I stepped over it.

At this point in my life, I’m ready to acknowledge and accept myself as I truly am. But to do that, I feel like I need to tell my story to myself first. To see my journey as a whole. To honestly see myself. To be kind to the suffering, to celebrate the bravery, to embrace the journey. This project is about more than just putting my life into words—it's about seeing myself fully, for the first time. It’s about telling the parts of my story I’ve kept hidden, even from myself, and finally letting go of the shame that’s held me back.

Almost Telling It

Years ago, I thought I was ready. I had just finished cancer treatment. The hospital where I was diagnosed and treated wanted to put out a press release about me—about how they had diagnosed me with something rare and treated my cancer successfully. It felt like a huge part of my story, and I thought, "Maybe this is where I start sharing more of myself."

I agreed to the press release, and soon after, the Philadelphia Inquirer asked to do a story about me. I thought, "Okay, maybe this is how I start to share." I told the reporter everything—about the diagnosis, the treatment, how it had changed my life. I was so comfortable with it. I thought I was ready.

But then, at the end of the interview, she asked if she could use my name. And I panicked. Completely froze.

It hit me—I wasn’t ready. Not really. The idea of seeing my name next to that diagnosis? I couldn’t handle it. Not then. I had just moved back to Philadelphia, started a new job, and begun a new life. I didn’t want to be defined by this thing, this diagnosis. It was 1999, and things were different back then. I wanted a normal life, and a normal life didn’t include disclosing everything about myself.

I asked if the story could be anonymous, or if she could use a pseudonym, but she said no, that the editorial guidelines wouldn’t allow it. So I said no to the article. I didn’t want to be my diagnosis. Not then. I just wanted to be normal.

But now, all these years later, I wonder… was that a missed opportunity? Did I miss my chance to be a voice for others who needed it?

What I Was Really Afraid Of

I’ve seen others in my community come out and live as themselves, no shame. They’ve become beacons of hope for others. But back then? I couldn’t do it. I could shout about cancer from the rooftops, but the other part? That part stayed buried under all the shame.

And that’s what it was. Shame.

Because let’s face it: everyone loves a cancer survivor. But who loves a hermaphrodite?