Once I no longer had breasts, my gender identity came into focus

This First Person article is written by Kael Reid, who lives in Guelph, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

For a split second, an electric current of anger jolted through me. 

I had just received an ecstatic text message from a young trans friend in Calgary. He had undergone top surgery — the gender-affirming removal of breast tissue coupled with surgical contouring to masculinize the chest. His message was quickly followed by a photo of his naked, newly flat, sculpted chest followed by a string of exclamation marks. 

Of course, I didn't share my initial response with him. I knew better. I knew that having this surgery meant everything to him. I whooped and hollered in my text message. I sent him a flurry of emojis. He was proud of his new chest and part of me felt happy for him.

But I felt unsettled.

After I put down my phone, question after question bubbled up. How come he can send a photo of his naked torso and it's not perceived as private or sexual? How come he gets to be free from the feminized experience of breasts and never has to wear a bra again? How come he gets to look good in men's dress shirts and I have to spend extra money to get mine tailored because I can't find a store that makes clothes for curvy-yet-androgynous-looking queer women like me? How come he is released from the sexualized meaning of breasts while I have to bear the weight of that meaning every minute of every day?

It didn't take me long to realize that my anger was disguised jealousy.

Being in-between

Today, my understanding of gender is more nuanced, but I was in my 20s when I was first exposed to feminism. Because of feminism, I learned to be proud of my female body. Because of feminism, I was able to rise above the sexist, misogynistic language, stories and jokes that I'd been subjected to as a young person. Because of feminism, I strongly aligned with the label of woman. Unlike lady or girl, identifying as a woman gave me a sense of strength, confidence and pride. For many years, being a woman became a badge of resistance and a symbol of survival. 

Years later, in 2015, when I received that text message from my friend, I still identified as a woman, if hesitantly. But I didn't know anyone else like me — a woman who didn't want breasts, a woman who secretly wanted top surgery. The people I knew who'd had top surgery identified as trans men. Like my friend, they were decades younger than me. They took testosterone. They used he/him or they/them pronouns. They changed their names to reflect their masculinity.

I was doing none of these things. Sure, I didn't conform to gender norms, but I used she/her pronouns. I proudly used the name Kate — short for Katharine, my maternal great-grandmother's name.

It was also around the same time that I learned about the word "cisgender" — meaning a person who identifies with the gender they were assigned at birth. But that term also didn't resonate with me. Something felt off to me about having to choose between cisgender or transgender. I didn't fit into either category. I felt like both, neither and somewhere in between. 

Labels

Over the years, I encountered other ways of understanding and defining gender. I began to think more deeply about how rules related to femininity and masculinity are socially constructed and seem arbitrary. I began to feel stifled by the ways in which gender norms are imposed on us by other people and how we are expected to accept our bodies. I began to reconsider the label I was using to define myself and felt constrained by the term, woman. I became more honest with myself about how I really felt about having breasts. 

Then in 2018, as a doctoral student at the University of Toronto, a brief hallway chat with a classmate changed my life. We were talking about bodies, identities and gender when I blurted out, "I wish I could have top surgery but I don't identify as trans." My friend turned toward me, put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and said, "You can have top surgery. It's your body. The gender train makes all the stops into the station."

He told me that in 2008, Ontario made it easier for gender non-conforming, trans non-binary and genderqueer people to qualify for medical health coverage for gender-affirming surgeries. He told me I should talk with my doctor. His message was, simply, you get to do this. Tears welled up under my eyelids. 

I made an appointment with my doctor the next day. A few months later, on Nov. 8, 2018, I had top surgery. I was 47.

My gender identity came into focus soon after having top surgery. Top surgery gave me the embodied feeling of having a flat chest. Top surgery allowed me to feel at home in my skin, to feel at ease in my clothes. Top surgery freed me from the feminized experience and sexualized meaning of having breasts. Now, my body feels like it belongs to me and is made up of the parts I want. That's why I now also use they/them pronouns and I describe myself as genderqueer. 

Non-binary was an option but it doesn't resonate with me. I have worked so hard in my life to be someone; I don't want to be "non" anything. To me, genderqueer is not connected to the gender binary in any way. To me, genderqueer feels expansive, disruptive and full of possibility. More recently, I changed my name to Kael, while keeping the initials of my maternal great-grandmother as my middle name.

Four years after having top surgery, I relish being in-between. I am proud to identify as genderqueer. And, I am still astonished every time I look in the mirror. 

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