The body I have is one that's covered in skin, plastic, nylon, silicon. It's held together with suction, adhesive, elastic bands, and prayers. My ovaries, or what functions as them, are taped to my flesh. My hair is held to my scalp with a glorified rubber band. The skin disguising the facial hair which hasn't managed to die yet is from a concealer pen and a foundation compact. 18 or so wakeful hours a day, it's the only body I know. In 41 years, it's the closest I've felt to at home inside myself since the days of prepubescence. Small wonder I've been awkward at presenting myself at so many opportunities in the meantime. How can you show someone you're interested in who you are when you can't show yourself?
My therapist, as I pointed out my body's failure to efficiently cool itself and the debilitating effects that has, offered that I should probably see a dermatologist, and proposed that she could find a recommendation for one who was transgender-friendly. That moment was one where I realized the gains I'd made in confidence: "As long as they're not actively trans-hostile, I don't care. This is who I am. They can deal with it."
Step 38: being an imperfect human should not prevent you from loving who you are.