I have an appointment in seven hours with an endochrinologist. It’s time to get on the juice. I’m anxious as hell.

This is the threshold. Anything I’ve done until now has been superficial, from plucking my brows to zapping my face, trading in my clothing from the men’s department for essentially the equivalent from the women’s department, and allowing myself to interact with people in a more “feminine” (conversational, expressive, animated) way… all of these things can be stopped, reversed, or let go.

I’m about to play with my body chemistry. For me, that’s the point of no return. That’s not to say I can’t stop hormones if needed. Rather, the changes that will occur can’t be undone. They can be hidden, but not undone. I’m committed to my course.

I’m thinking of Baldwin: “To act is to be committed, and to be committed is to be in danger.” It doesn’t feel like danger, but I am worried. How will I turn out?

There was a moment as I laid in Miriam’s arms this morning, a flashback to an essay in “Balancing on the Mechitza” about the way part of the morning prayer (Men: “Blessed are you, Lord, who did not make me a woman.” Women: “Blessed are you, Lord, who made me according to your will.”) should be adjusted to reflect the transition between genders: “Blessed are you, Lord, who has changed me according to your will.”

“…according to your will.”

It’s not in my hands, the way I’ll turn out. Faith, trust, and ultimately acceptance of what good comes from this is what I need to draw towards now and return to over the coming years. I need to look in the mirror and find the changes and celebrate how much better they are than where I’ve been, not mourn how much better they should be. I can’t know the end result of playing with my body chemistry until I get there.