Gender Euphoria

I rose to pee the other morning.
As I emerged from the toilet, I caught a clear view of myself. 
In the mirror:
a blonde young man with hair cut off at the edge 
of his square jaw, 
an open plum flannel with cuffed sleeves, 
and a hint of fuzzy belly chub visible below.

I edged closer to the vanity
to admire him. 
Gone were the days of
hairless thighs, swimsuits marketed toward women— 
half-assed attempts at accepting
that binary body.
Oily thighs and ass hair were here to stay. 

I couldn't keep from grinning,
the crooked angle of my smile
pressing newly chubby cheeks 
against pale under-eye. 

This joy was earned through years of turmoil,
that while I wish I had been spared,
I cannot ignore its impact.
I have chosen to grow past the majority
of the injustices I have faced.
I have advised and cherished trans kids, 
and they love me for it.
They rely on me, confide in me, and have begun
to shape my relationship with my body.
We are no longer estranged, but roommates.
I believe this to be progress.
I believed, before, that this was the 
best I could receive.

But to achieve unadulterated joy
in this body— 
to be able to look at myself with kindness, 
to be able to point out body parts that
I like in myself—
was not something I expected.
I told others that I did, for medical purposes and 
for acceptance.
But I can tell trans kids this is possible now,
I can tell my chosen family that 
I am happier. 
And I can walk down the street
a fraction of self-hatred freer.