The Pronouns I Borrowed

by Elizabeth Casas

I changed my pronouns in my late twenties and it was a journey full of uncertainty.

Yet, I wouldn’t change a thing.

My mother gave me my first and middle name, my dad gave me my surname. That same birth certificate also contained my assigned gender:female. “She” and “her” pronouns, for many years, caused deep dysphoria inside me. 

I was not always brave like I am now so I owned pronouns that weren’t mine to begin with.

I was “her” for over a decade.

At ten, I knew much more than the multiplication table or all the presidents of the United States. I became aware of something that mattered to me, but I did not know how to articulate the questions to the answers I so desperately seeked.

What I did know was that everyone around me tried to paint me pink. Not literally, but they wanted me to embrace womenhood even as a “girl.”

That was never me.

Inside, I was someone who loved playing with my purple Game Boy. I enjoyed having the power to choose any character regardless of gender, because it did not matter to me if the video game animations identified as a boy or a girl because that’s how I felt. 

There was always this lingering question in the back of my mind, why there were so many guidelines for a gender. One I did not pick, but felt so trapped in.  

When no one was around to dictate my pronouns or gender, I caught glimpses of who I felt like inside. 

Someone with short hair, masculine presenting, and very gender fluid.

But much like how other species blend in to survive, I owned the pronouns that weren’t mine to begin with. I was Wendy for over a decade.

Being her was exhausting, but it was beautiful in some ways. Surprisingly, I felt stunning in dresses and loved when my hair would play with the wind during the summer time. I think in some form or another she taught me how to embrace uncertainty in a world full of labels, judgment, and fear.

The main reason I learned to assimilate to not only “she” or “her” pronouns but also the female gender was fear. I was afraid of not being accepted or feeling alone.

Over time living with those borrowed pronouns began to feel dysfunctional, so much so that after a while I put myself in a box. 

A constrained and mislabeled box.

I spent years setting high expectations for someone that was not even real. Yet, there I was trapped in a box with a very female-presenting forename, and pronouns that didn't fit at all.

I even tried borrowing other pronouns that weren’t fitting but felt better, but I couldn’t commit to being “he” or “him” because I am neither. 

Eventually, I looked for courage in this box. 

The courage looked like figuring out what my pronouns actually were, and what gender I identified most with. I was in my mid twenties when I finally had enough courage to find myself.

Sometimes I think about how people react to things, and how they believe they need to respond to something or someone new. My family is still learning to accept my preferred name and pronouns. I don’t know what they believe but it hurts me everytime they choose to ignore my identity. Last year, on my thirtieth birthday when my dad and my sister sang me happy birthday they used my deadname. I even joked around and told them they had to sing it all over again because they used the wrong name.

They responded with silence.

Although it’s uncomfortable to have to correct them constantly, I will continue to be relentless because I refuse to be called by my deadname.

Whenever I feel like my voice is tired of advocating for my pronouns, I think of my younger self, how they felt so lost, and yet they always knew the answers to the questions they had would come some day. Even though I struggled, embarking on this journey of self discovery helped heal my inner child and much more that can not be put into words.

I don’t regret a thing. The other pronouns were simply borrowed.

I am just me.