39 reasons I refuse to shrink: Joy and aging as my new act of rebellion

I turn 39 in a few days. While I'm not entirely ecstatic about celebrating this birthday as I've done in the past (I mean, are birthdays that exciting after 30?), there's a different vibe that I'm moving to.

The Terrifying Thirties

If my twenties were a messy queer prom, from oversized feelings to under-processed trauma (and the occasional, questionable fashion choices), my thirties arrived like a stern guidance counselor holding a clipboard. Setting goals? Setting boundaries? Seeking therapy? I couldn't imagine myself doing that, but there I was. Trans time is bizarre: we're always either "too young to know" or "too old to start." But I was determined to write my own story.

Parts of my chapters were filled with learning that this journey wasn't entirely on calm seas.

There were tense moments with dangerous waves during my social transitioning: microaggressions in the workplace; getting clocked by cis folks as I entered the room; the constant excuses I gave to men who only called or saw me when it was darker outside. But there were other parts of the chapter filled with genuine trans joy: from the slight changes in my body after the first doses (and, occasionally, redoses after a long span without them due to lack of funds/insurance) to the new friendships made with trans siblings on their journeys.

And yet, the chapter I feared most was my 35th.

For many Black trans women, turning 35 is part of our shared experience. A rite of passage. It's a reminder that some of our sisters don't make it past this age, statistics that loom like storm clouds in the open seas. Would my heart give out from too much fear? Would back-alley bigotry write the ending for me? Even as I grew bolder in heels, a part of me planned an emergency exit, just in case.

My 35th birthday arrived, and fortunately, nothing happened. Friends toasted me with cheap prosecco and expensive affirmations. However, internally, I realized that 36 had become a finish line in my nightmares. My heart kept beating, and the skies failed to fall, but simultaneously, a slight shift occurred within me. A part of me thought it was physical; the triumphs and tribulations of turning 35. It wasn't until the following year that I realized the shift was more emotional and less physical. Though I noticed my metabolism wasn't the same.

Choosing Radiance Over Ruin

Here's the plot twist: 36 arrived and, once again, nothing exploded. Instead, I celebrated with an aunt and new friends in Houston. I wore a Mondrian-pattern duster, blue pointed heels, and lipstick the shade of rebellion. As I Ubered from one bar to the other, I wrote two lines in my digital notebook:

1. You made it.
2. Now make it worthwhile.

It would be many years before the mantra coalesced, but it was always there: Love yourself so hard that it feels selfish. Not soft-focus self-care marketed by companies, but audacious, walk-in-a-room-like-you-own-it self-love. The kind of self-love that terrifies systems invested in your doubt and downfall.

The kind of self-love that chooses radiance over ruin every single dawn.

Lessons from a Decade of Becoming

As I round the corner into thirty-nine, I carry a book of wisdom scrawled from plane rides, pride parties, and 3 a.m. sob sessions. Let me offer a few pages:

• Transition never ends; it evolves. Bodies shift, names echo, surgeries heal, politics whiplash, but the real metamorphosis is your relationship with yourself. I didn't "become" a woman; I remembered I always was one and fired the internal bouncer who kept denying me entry.
• Joy is a masterclass in resistance. Laughter at brunch, yelling and dancing under streetlights, putting on a favorite suit or dress just because—each gasp of joy thunders, "I refuse to disappear."
• Fear is data, not destiny. Every time fear whispered "don't," curiosity asked "what if?" Nine out of ten, curiosity won. That tenth time? I wrote in my diary and kept moving.
• You're allowed to outgrow old dreams. There are many scenarios I fantasized about, and people I dreamt of who would still be a part of my life. Like an old painting, the color of those dreams has faded. But a whole new canvas is waiting for me to paint something new.
• The mirror is a collaborator, not a judge. The mirror will show you when you have spinach in your teeth and when your aura needs a pep talk. Listen kindly, then go flirt in the daylight.

The Mathematics of Milestones

39 is a gorgeous, odd number. It's prime and confident, a wink away from 40. For a trans woman who once treated "next year" like an aspiration rather than a guarantee, every birthday felt like compounding interest on a fragile investment. But I'm now collecting them like vintage records, each scratch a souvenir.

Some have asked if I dread turning forty. But aging, for me, is not erosion; it's excavation. Each year, I chisel away everything unloved until the sculpture underneath gleams. That includes laugh lines that map decades of punchlines survived and stretch marks that detail growth spurts, both literal and emotional. They are the receipts of staying alive.

Self-love at a selfish volume unnerves people because it breaks the agreement that marginalized bodies remain apologetic.

What Comes After the Candle Smoke

The world is heavy, friends. Anti-trans legislation multiplies like spam emails. Headlines drip gloom; some mornings, surviving the algorithm feels like an extreme sport. Yet every time I practice selfish self-love, I tip the scales toward possibility. Audre Lorde called self-care an act of political warfare. I call it my daily vitamin. When we love ourselves audaciously, we rewrite the terms of engagement: from endurance to exuberance.

I dream of turning sixty, gossiping with my trans siblings at a chic dinner, gossiping about our relationships, and bragging about our battle scars and bliss festivals. But to get there, I must continue to choose self-love.

Final Birthday Toast

Raise your mismatched mug, champagne flute, or spironolactone meds—or whatever your vessel—because here's my toast:

To the messy, miraculous math of survival. To every hormone pill, therapy session, kitchen-floor cry, and dance-floor resurrection that delivered us to this space.To the audacity of dreaming past 35, 45, and 95.To the sacred practice of loving ourselves so loudly that even our future selves can hear the echo. And here's to the next spin around the sun, draped in joy, lined with rest, and scored by the laughter of chosen family.

There's no moral prize for shrinking. The world will not hand you a medal for dimming your sparkle. But there is infinite joy in embracing your authenticity at any age. So, whether you're turning 19, 39, 59, or 99, know that you're worth the decibels of your age, just as much as your identity and journey.

Clink. Now practice the decadent art of immense joy and self-adoration. Auntie's orders.

xx,

Your Lovable Trans Auntie

P.S.: Auntie is taking a break this summer. But I return on Wednesday, September 4, bigger, better, and more fabulous than ever!

Your Lovable Trans Auntie is our go-to advice column for life’s biggest (and messiest) questions—love, work, identity, and everything in between. With a signature blend of warmth, wit, and just the right amount of sass, Auntie offers readers a uniquely trans perspective that’s as affirming as it is entertaining. Whether dishing out heartfelt wisdom, practical advice, or a little tough love, Auntie is here to remind everyone that they’re never alone on this journey

Got a crush but don’t know how to tell them you’re trans? Wondering how to deal with that coworker who still “forgets” your pronouns? Trying to navigate family drama, dating dilemmas, or just figuring out who you are? Auntie’s got you. Submit your questions to voices@equalpride.com.