Every morning, I wake up before the sun rises. The mirror in my room greets me with a reflection I’ve never fully felt at home with. I am a man – always have been – but my body doesn’t fully reflect that yet. My name is Aarav, and I’m a transgender man.
I live in a small rented room in Mumbai, sharing space with two flatmates who barely know my story. I work as a freelance graphic designer – I get projects here and there, but it’s never consistent. Some months, I can barely pay rent. Others, I save a little. But surgery? That still feels like a distant dream.
My chest dysphoria is the worst. I bind every day, even when it gets hard to breathe, even in this 35°C heat. Some days, I wear a hoodie just to hide the compression marks, even though people stare. I avoid public bathrooms. I avoid changing rooms. I avoid myself.
I’ve tried to seek help. There are some NGOs, but the waiting lists are endless. My parents disowned me when I came out two years ago. “Beta ban ke kya kar lega tu?” my father had shouted. I haven’t seen them since.
So here I am. Working late nights, skipping meals sometimes, all for one goal: top surgery. It’s not just cosmetic for me. It’s survival. It’s waking up and not hating the body I live in. I’ve set up a fundraiser online, but people don’t really understand. They scroll past. They think it’s a “choice.”
No, this isn’t a choice. This is who I am. And all I want is to be able to look in the mirror and finally breathe freely.
Maybe one day, I’ll get there.
Until then, I hustle. I survive. I hope.
