Just Be

I often think back to the early days of my transition and smile a little at the things I thought were important.

Like so many trans people, I wanted to be passable. I wanted to walk through the world unnoticed. I wanted someone to look at me and simply think, “There’s a woman,” and move on with their day. At the same time, I wanted to be useful. I wanted to help people understand that trans people weren’t some mysterious group of strangers they had heard about on television. I wanted them to know we were ordinary people trying to live ordinary lives.

I’ve always hated the word normal. To me, normal is a setting on the dryer.

Ordinary is better.

We get up and make coffee. We forget to take out the trash. We laugh at stupid jokes and cry at sad movies. We worry about our children and our parents and whether we’re ever going to finish the laundry. We put our pants on one leg at a time and wonder why the line at the grocery store is moving so slowly.

In other words, we’re just people.

I think that’s one of the reasons I’ve spent so much time being visible. I wanted people to meet someone who happened to be trans instead of imagining what they thought a trans person might be.

I didn’t realize then that visibility comes with a cost.

Living publicly can be a funny thing. There are days when I can walk through an airport and no one notices me, and there are days when complete strangers know my life story before I’ve ever introduced myself. Some people stop and say hello. Some want a picture. Some tell me about their child or their grandchild or their best friend and thank me for simply existing in public.

Other people aren’t nearly as kind.

I was at an event recently where a very powerful politician was in attendance. I noticed him across the room and thought I’d walk over and introduce myself. I wasn’t looking for an argument or a debate. I wasn’t trying to change his mind about anything. I simply thought we should meet.

I walked over, smiled, and stuck out my hand.

He looked at me, recognized me, turned around, and walked away.

For just a second, I stood there wondering what had happened.

Then something unexpected happened.

I smiled.

The only reason he knew who I was is because I’d spent the last several years trying to make a difference. The only reason he recognized me is because I’d spent countless hours telling my story and meeting people and trying to show the world that we belong here too.

Oddly enough, it gave me hope.

I’ve learned that hate can be a strange measuring stick.

The louder some people become, the more I realize they know we’re making progress.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

It does.

I know there are people in our community who are tired. I know there are people who are scared. I know there are parents worried about their children and children worried about their parents. I know there are people living in small towns who wonder if they’ll ever feel safe enough to simply be themselves.

Believe me.

I know.

But I’ve also learned something else along the way.

No one gets to decide who you are except you.

That sounds simple enough, but it took me most of my life to understand it.

My mother used to tell me that no one had the right to control my emotions. If someone made me angry, I was giving them power they didn’t deserve. If I expected someone else to make me happy, I was handing them responsibility for something that belonged to me.

I heard those words as a child.

I understood them as a woman.

No one gets to own your heart.

No one gets to tell you what brings you joy.

No one gets to decide whether you deserve love.

That belongs to you.

I’ve thought about that lesson a lot over the last few years as laws have been passed and speeches have been made and debates have taken place over people like me.

The truth is, there are a lot of things governments can do.

They can pass laws.

They can hold hearings.

They can write policies.

They can make life easier or harder.

But there isn’t a single law ever written that can reach inside your chest and change who you are.

There isn’t a politician alive who gets to rewrite your heart.

I think that’s why small acts of kindness have become so important to me.

Sometimes it’s nothing more than a rainbow watch band.

Or a little Pride sticker on the back of a car.

Maybe it’s a bracelet or an equality pin or a tiny flag tucked into the corner of a window.

To most people, they don’t mean very much.

To someone else, they might mean everything.

I think about the young cashier at the grocery store who notices your watch band.

The teenager walking through the parking lot who spots the sticker on your car.

The older gentleman who finally works up the courage to tell you that his grandson is gay.

The grandmother trying to understand her grandchild.

The quiet little nod that passes between two strangers.

“I like your bracelet.”

It’s funny how much can be said without saying very much at all.

What they’re really saying is, “I think we’re on the same team.”

What you’re really saying back is, “You’re safe with me.”

I’ve come to believe that some of the most important work we’ll ever do happens in those quiet moments.

I’ve said this before, and I’ll keep saying it for as long as I’m around.

Being out saves lives.

Not because everyone has to stand on a stage or run for office or become an activist.

Quite the opposite.

It saves lives because someone, somewhere, gets to see that happiness is possible.

A little kid in a small town gets to see that there’s a future waiting for them.

A scared teenager gets to believe they might fall in love someday.

A parent gets to believe their child is going to be okay.

Someone sitting alone in a house somewhere gets to think, “Maybe there’s a place for me after all.”

You may never know you’ve changed a life.

You may never know someone saw your bracelet or your watch band or your sticker and felt a little less alone.

You may never hear their story.

But that doesn’t mean the moment didn’t matter.

The older I get, the more I think our purpose here isn’t to change the entire world.

Maybe it’s simply to leave it a little kinder than we found it.

Maybe it’s to pull out another chair at the table.

Maybe it’s to smile at a stranger.

Maybe it’s to hold someone’s hand when they’re scared.

Maybe it’s to quietly tell another human being, “You belong here.”

I think that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along.

Not to be famous.

Not to be popular.

Not even to be remembered.

Just to leave a few lights on for the next person walking down a dark road.

I hope there comes a day when a rainbow watch band doesn’t have to carry so much meaning.

I hope there comes a day when little kids don’t have to search for signs that they’ll be accepted.

I hope there comes a day when simply being yourself isn’t considered an act of courage.

Until that day comes, I hope we keep showing up.

I hope we keep loving each other.

I hope we keep leaving little breadcrumbs for those still trying to find their way home.

And I hope we never forget something that took me a lifetime to learn.

They can legislate a lot of things.

They can never legislate your heart.

So let them make noise.

We’ll make history.

—Olivia Hill