Kimberly Bloom is not my name. It’s neither my birthname, my deadname, nor my new, chosen name. Kimberly Bloom is a name that came to me the week I realized I was trans and started the road to transition – not the process of transition itself, mind, but the long path leading to the beginning of the process. Like having to walk a thousand miles down to the sea before you can begin to learn to swim so that you can cross a treacherous and deadly ocean.

There’s a folder on my computer called “Kim Possible.” A dumb name from a child’s show, but every time I see it it gives me a little thrill. This is possible. I can do it.

I put an unreasonable amount of thought into whether to call this a “journal” or a “diary.” I’ve heard it said that a “journal” is what men call a “diary” because girls keep diaries, and that’s seems to be an argument for “diary.” This process is going to be a long string of second-guesses: is this what a girl would do? Is this how a woman would do this? Will this make me seen manly?

Which would be more daunting if I hadn’t spent my whole life until now doing the same thing in exactly the opposite direction. Is this how a man would do this? Would a boy cross his legs this way? If I do this, will people suspect that I’m not really manly? That really, under it all, I’m a big sissy?

In the end, I decided simply that a “journal” is the record of a “journey,” and that’s what this is: the record of my journey from male to female, out of the world of men and into the world of women.

As I hinted above, it’s a journey of a million little steps. Learning how to sit like a woman, to walk like a woman, to talk like a woman. Lots of people will say that, trans women being women, the “journey” is simply me leaning to do as comes natural, simply relaxing and becoming myself; after all, noone can say what a woman is, so who’s to say I’m not one now?

If you believe – as I tend to – that gender is a role, then you know that roles are performed, and every performance is rehearsed, trained for, critiqued and refined. I’ve spent my whole life learning the role of “man,” of “husband” and “father” and all the other sub-roles that go along with it, one turn on the stage at a time.

Everyone who’s ever cultivated a habit knows that it’s a process of continuous reflection and improvement, not simply of learning the thing but of doing it over and over until the motions are automatic, until you can’t remember how to do it another way.

My friend and family, my natural first audience, are supportive. They talk into two basic camps: enthusiastic and uncritical, on the one hand; and baffled but loving, on the other. Neither is a good foil to work against; the one will praise whichever performance I give, and the latter will not know good from bad.

And so my audience is strangers, as are all audiences in the end: the man sitting across from me in the cafe where I’m writing this, glancing at me from time to time when he thinks I’m not looking, wondering – is that guy wearing women’s shoes?

No, friend, that’s not it: that man isn’t wearing women’s shoes, that woman is wearing men’s pants. Men’s sweater. A man’s face. A man’s body.

So there’s the audience for my performance – my new friend in the comfy chair, the woman serving the coffee, the trans woman who just stumbled in, clearly on her way home from a night out, with the warm fleeting smile for me, tho whether for my girly shoes or my handsome face, who knows.

Putting on this performance is hard. It’s frightening and wearing, it takes time and care and thought continuously applied, day in and out. Remembering to moisturize. Taking the time to shave, even when I slept in. Putting thought into what I’m wearing today.

Remembering to look in the mirror, as I scrub the shaving cream off my face, and look for the woman I’m becoming in the familiar but somehow alien face emerging from behind the wash cloth.

What i need, I suppose, is an accountability buddy. Someone who watches to make sure, not that my performance is convincing, but that i give it at all. Someone whom I will remember when I think about skipping a day; someone to personify the disappointment that I’ll feel in myself, if I don’t give this series of little performances.

Which brings me to you, dear reader. The idea behind this journal is not simply to record my progress, but to cultivate an audience of the mind, who will be disappointed when I take a day off from, deciding to stay in camp rather than trudging onward, who will be heartbroken if I turn around and start for home.

So welcome, dear reader, to the journey, welcome to the slog, to the trudge. I hope to see you most days for the foreseeable future.

Wish me luck.