Therapy was hardly an hour after I'd clambered on the bike. I arrived with minutes to spare, paying my bill before waiting to be collected for my session. I caught her up since I'd last seen her two weeks ago, recounting lack of progress on some fronts. We segued into a discussion of what else was up in my life, delving into how I was feeling at the moment. She'd chided me many times for failing to own my successes, but for a bare minute, I did. I let myself cry, too, an occurrence uncommon enough to be countable on the fingers of one hand.
Was it really that surprising that I'd be unable to hold on to positive feelings about myself in a world which tried sometimes even unconsciously to make me feel like a freak? I couldn't promise it would work, but I swore I would try to hold on to those emotions. After all, I'd just made biking an unlikely route in an improbable outfit look like a fun, even sexy, thing to do to hundreds of random strangers. Why the heck should I be letting anything else based on the prejudices of others stand in my way?