Author's note: This isn't quite a short-short story but it's not far off. We tend to write about the process of transition but occasionally it seems a good idea to think about 'what then?'

Susanne sat quietly, her legs curled up beneath her as she stared at the blank page in her notebook. The sofa, like her flat, was small but snug, but it was enough for her needs. She chewed absentmindedly on her biro wondering what to put down for this year. She had always been a compulsive planner. Lists, spreadsheets, timetables, research and more research; always afraid of missing something, of forgetting some tiny but critical detail. It had been part of her life since forever but for the last three years she had lived for those lists and plans.

Three years, seven months and nine days to be precise. At eleven forty two on a sunny May morning she had walked out of the gender specialist’s office in a daze, clutching her notebook to her chest as his words bounced around inside her head. “It’s clear you have a degree of gender dysphoria. We will need to work out exactly to what extent and decide on….”, the rest was lost in a swirl of random thoughts and emotions, dominated throughout by a single joyous silver thread. “It wasn’t all in my mind. Someone else can see it and believes it. Someone who understands these things!” Separately her hands had kept jotting down notes as he spoke and her head had bobbed at the right intervals but her mind had skipped off miles away as she started outlining her first plan.

There had been lots of plans since then and for three years she had sat in her little flat alone on this particular evening. For three years she had listened to the fireworks outside. And with each passing year she had made herself promises. So many pennies saved for electrolysis, so many pounds saved for surgeries, so many pounds to be lost to achieve a figure.

And in each year there had been ups and downs. Overcoming the terror of admitting to others that she was transgendered, only to find most people didn’t really give a damn. The joy of a new outfit, only to catch an ill concealed sneer or supposedly funny remark from some little toe rag from the nearby housing estate. The dreary corrosive trudge through the divorce courts. All these and more had happened and yet, throughout it all that tiny silver thread had run ahead. It had given her focus in the dark times and had blossomed in the light when she realised how far she had come and how everything started fitting better, or more accurately feeling better, in her life until at last the final hurdle was reached.

Susanne really hated surgery. Her nerves had never been about whether or not it was the right thing to do (she had known that within minutes of walking out of the specialist’s office). Nor were they about the outcome (her research had been painstaking). It was just, she just hated surgery.

A month later she knew exactly why. Recovery was a bitch! However, with each passing day Susanne got better, her fitness returned (although she noted on one of her spreadsheets that she had put on more pounds than she had planned), she returned to work and steadily got back to normal. But something was wrong, more importantly, something was missing.

That little silver thread had vanished. It had been her internal light, her constant, for all this time and now it had gone and for the first time in three years, seven months and nine days Susanne had no plan, no list of things to accomplish. So here she sat, staring at a blank page with a slight frown as the top of the pen suffered more damage.

Finally, the frown left her brow and with a small smile she started writing.

Stop being transgendered, start being a woman.

She paused for a moment, thinking, although the smile didn’t leave her lips. Then Susanne started to add a neat list of sub objectives and target dates.

Starting with next year's Christmas card list. She had always been a compulsive planner.

© Persephone 2014 (just)