At 50, passing isn’t the goal. Living is

It's 2:24 a.m. again. My favorite hour to wrestle with ghosts.

Like clockwork — every damn night — I'm flat on my back, staring at the corners of my mahogany nightstand and the reflections bouncing off my Chanel bottles. Jerry's still snoozing beside the bed, his back turned, the Vegas strip light dancing across his fur while his little fan hums like a lullaby for broken promises. Nineteen years old, half-deaf, dreaming of chicken. Time, to him, is irrelevant.

Sometimes I envy that kind of oblivion.

My mind, however, refuses to sleep. It chases its tail, a parade of nonsense and old regrets. I try breathing exercises, counting backwards, imagining waves or cake, but even my imaginary waves are noisy. "Oh God," I mutter, "I'm fucking lonely."

If loneliness had an emoji, it'd be that melting-face one. Half crying, half Botoxed. I turn fifty next year. Jesus. Wasn't it 1997 just five minutes ago? Back when turning thirty felt like the apocalypse? The years don't glide; they stumble. Somewhere between bills and hyaluronic acid, you stop being seen the way you used to.

You fade. Politely.

I tell myself I'm shy, but that's a lie. I'm not shy; I'm cautious. I follow unspoken rules. Every morning, I armor up like a performer: a kabuki artist with a pharmacy budget. Lately, it's Dr. Perricone's No Makeup Makeup foundation in shade "Golden," painting bravery onto my skin. Daily shave, double layer of No Makeup, contour, bronzer. All in all, it was enough to confuse me and the lazy eye.

My smoky eyes? Outdated, sure. But they make me feel like me. The world can keep its "clean girl aesthetic." I'm not Paltrow. I'm complicated. The hand sanitizer and lotion are arranged just right, creating optical illusions that widen the hips. The unisex scrubs whisper "SAFE."

It's all smoke and geometry. Illusion as survival.

Each day, I win one invisible award: Most Passable in Blackout Vegas Lighting. Lately, though, the cracks show. Coworkers' side glances, patients' nervous jokes, those silent paper cuts of human judgment. They build up and sting in places concealer can't reach. Sometimes I catch my reflection and think, Who am I fooling? But I'm not trying to fool anyone. I'm just trying to live.

"I'm Nurse Hermie," I say, electronically signing my notes Hermano Rodriguez. It's tougher now. Everyone's an expert on lives they've never lived. People fear being "duped" by transgender-gängers, as if we're shapeshifters rather than humans just trying to make rent.

Thank you, Caitlyn Jenner — and yes, that's sarcasm. She and the TikTok teens turned visibility into spectacle. Suddenly, we're hashtags and think pieces. Even J.K. Rowling chimed in from her Twitter throne. Everyone is a philosopher of gender with Wi-Fi. Once, at a pub, I overheard young men debating Jenner and "people like me." They spoke like jurors. One said, "Why can't they just be normal?"

Another was a doctor I worked with decades ago, who suggested we be called "it." I laughed quietly, pretending it didn't wound. I wanted to tell her, "How dare you!" and that normal is a costume. They just wear it more comfortably. But I said nothing. I just smiled and disappeared into my oblivion.

Silence can be a weapon. Or a wound.

But I digress. Remember Glossier? "I woke up like this" in a tube. We all tried to embrace our freckles, our pores, and our authenticity. The "woke beauty" era — till the comments ruined it. We are not quite there yet. These are my deep thoughts for 2 a.m. My mind's a blender set to ruminate. Every memory, every ghost gets tossed in. The fridge hums like applause. Another dawn creeping up, another day to survive.

And I will. That's the secret no one tells you about living this long. You don't always win; you keep showing up. But some days, showing up feels like walking into a spotlight you never asked for. The world claims to love authenticity, that is, until it's messy. Then it's "too much."

I remember once, early in my transition, going out barefaced—no concealer, no contour, just sunscreen and nerve. I thought, Maybe this is freedom. I made it two blocks before a stranger's look sent me home. I cried for hours, then redrew myself. That was the day I learned bravery can look like blush.

Some nights I scroll through old photos — the before, the in-between, the almost — and barely recognize myself. Not because of the changes, but because of how desperately I tried to belong to someone else's reflection. Now I belong to myself. Flawed because time hardens you whether you like it or not.

I wish I could talk to that younger me, terrified, hopeful, and stubborn. I'd tell her the fear never disappears, but it quiets. She'll survive heartbreak, judging eyes, and bad eyeliner days. She'll still be here at fifty, quietly whispering to her dog at 2 a.m.

The moonlight and neon lights catch the edge of my perfume bottles again, tiny galaxies in glass prisons. I take comfort in their permanence, in how scent lingers after everything else fades. I'll get up and do it all again. Conceal, contour, survive. Smile at patients, nod at coworkers, ignore the whispers. If I'm lucky, I'll catch my reflection and think, You're still here. You made it.

Maybe survival looks like showing up for the performance until the lights dim.

Because in the end, this isn't about fooling anyone. It's about building a version of myself the world can't destroy. Layer by layer, blend by blend, and truth beneath illusion. And when I wash it all off at night, I'm left with a face that's lived a thousand quiet rebellions.

It's 4:58 a.m. now. Jerry's still out cold. My ghosts are quiet. The world feels soft again, like powder on skin.

My husband, Rick, of twenty-five years, turns over, tugging the sheets slightly off me.

Today, the performance begins anew. Foundation. Mascara. Coffee. Courage. Repeat.

Norbi Kamantigue is a hospice nurse in Las Vegas, NV, who brings compassion and a zest for life to everything she does.

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