"William!" My father hissed quietly. "Look at the camera!"

"Sorry, dad," I whispered as I turned my attention back to the photographer, who was ready to capture today's visit for posterity. Though in my defence, as an eight-year-old boy, it was natural for me to be distracted by the visitors who came to my grandfather's home — after all, it's not every day that you have your photograph taken with the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh.

My name is William Constable. I was born in Edinburgh on the 15th of May 1998. My father is Robert Constable, who was born in 1964, and his father, my grandfather, was born in 1938 as Malcolm Constable, but is today better known as the 13th Viscount of Dunbar. Hence the royal visit — everyone in the room right now, even those who married into the family, and even the photographer, a cousin of my father, is a descendant of King George III, thanks to one of my distant ancestors marrying one of his granddaughters. And while you might think that it's fun, being a distant cousin of the Queen, it also comes with a lot of responsibilities — and I don't just mean standing still while having your photograph taken.

Everywhere I went, an air of expectation followed me. I had to behave with the proper decorum at all times, I had to be polite and respectful to all those I met, especially my teachers at school — and god forbid my grades should ever drop, especially considering how much my parents were paying for my education. Of course, at home, my parents' wealth (largely a product of their business dealings, though being literal nobility certainly helped their success there) meant that I wanted for nothing — well, nothing material, anyway. And the fact that I had two older brothers, meaning I was unlikely to ever inherit the title of Viscount, did take some of the pressure off me. Or so I thought when I was younger — but I'm getting ahead of myself a bit.

On that balmy summer's day in 2006, I'd had it drilled into me over and over again just how important my grandfather's reception was to not just him, but our entire family. While my grandfather and the Queen weren't strangers, it had been a few years since they'd last met. I didn't quite understand the details at the time, but my father and oldest brother had told me that the company owned by my grandfather and managed by my father- and as such, the source of our wealth- would be helped by the visit, and the better the visit went, the richer we would get.

Of course, as an eight-year-old boy, this message didn't quite sink in as much as my family would've hoped.

While my grandparents entertained Her Majesty, my father regaled His Royal Highness with tales of his service in the Royal Marines, more specifically his deployment to Iraq in the early nineties. My mother and my aunt watched over my sister and my cousins as they listened to my grandparents and watched her majesty with genuine awe in their young eyes. And my brothers and I sat around, minding our behaviour and trying not to incur the wrath of our parents. Needless to say, for three preteen boys, this didn’t last long, and soon my brothers were itching to go outside and explore the grounds of our grandfather’s vast estate. And naturally, as the youngest, I was ‘volunteered’ to ask for permission. I trembled with nerves as I approached my father, as I knew that I was about to make him VERY unhappy.

“D- dad?” I asked nervously, trying to catch my father’s attention as he talked with the husband of the Queen.

“Not now, William, I’m busy,” dad replied, before instantly turning his attention back to the duke. I took a deep breath — I knew that if I returned to my brothers without an answer, they’d just keep sending me back over and over again until I either got the response I wanted- or got told off in front of everyone, royal or not. So, even though I knew it’d get me in trouble, I bit the bullet and persisted, figuring it was better to get it over with quickly rather than draw out my inevitable disciplining.

“Dad? Me, Robert and James were wondering if we could play outside for a bit?” I asked, flinching as my father turned to me with a furious look in his eyes.

“William, this is a very important occasion,” dad said in a quiet hiss. “It won’t hurt you or your brothers to stay indoors and behave yourselves for a couple of hours.” I blinked back tears and nodded as I tried to figure out how I’d tell my brothers the news — and, worse yet, what I’d say when they inevitably sent me back again. What happened next, though, caught me completely off guard — and would stick in my memory for my entire life.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, let them play,” the duke interjected. “Boys their age should play outside more often.”

“…If his highness says it’s okay, then- okay, you can go,” dad said, though his demeanour made it clear that my telling off was merely postponed rather than cancelled altogether.

“Thanks, dad,” I said, before turning and bowing to the older gentleman, just as I’d been taught to do my whole life. “Thank you, your highness.”

I’ll never forget the smile on the duke’s face as he waved me off, obviously believing that he’d done me a great favour. And while my brothers were pleased — and surprised — that we’d been given permission to run around outside, our father was less than pleased — as I soon discovered when we returned to the reception room after bidding farewell to the Queen and the Duke.

“I am very, VERY disappointed in you, William!” dad said as I stood in my grandfather’s lounge, trembling as all of our family looked on. “I told you a thousand times how important today was, and how important it was for you to behave! Luckily, his highness wasn’t TOO offended by your interruption. God knows what would have happened if you’d offended him.” I bit my lip as I tried my hardest not to cry, though the stern, stoic look on my grandfather’s face didn’t help- nor did the looks of amusement on my brothers’ faces.

“And don’t think that the two of you are off the hook,” dad snarled at Robert and James.

“Oh- what?” my oldest brother Robert protested. “We didn’t do anything!”

“I know the two of you put William up to it,” dad chastised my brothers, before turning back to me. “But that doesn’t mean that you get to hide behind that as an excuse. I suppose I have to laugh at the irony of your sister being more mature than all of her older brothers. God knows how much easier my life would be if you were all a little more like her.” I remained silent as I accepted my telling off, even as I gazed over to where my sister was sat, minding her own business. And I remembered one thing above all else — above my shame, above my father’s words, even above meeting the Queen — I remembered wishing that I too could be more like my sister.

I wished that I could be treated with more empathy, rather than being told to 'man up' all the time. I wished that I could play with dolls and tea sets rather than with toy soldiers or footballs. I wished that I could wear the fancy dresses my sister did, or have long hair with ribbons in it. I wished that I could be pretty, and delicate, and loved for who I was, rather than who I was expected to be. I wished that my parents would accept me as a daughter, rather than a son. But I also knew that would never happen. From the second I could talk I was told about the responsibilities I had. Responsibilities to my family and to my title, which included proper behaviour, working hard and always projecting a 'proper' upper class image — specifically, that of a cisgender, heterosexual man.

The confusion this caused my young self cannot be overstated, along with the stress caused by hiding who I truly felt I was on the inside. At primary school, I’d see girls playing hopscotch and dancing and want to join in, only to be told I couldn’t by my brothers. I’d secretly envy their knee-length grey skirts, red cardigans and delicate shoes with silver buckles while hating my own itchy trousers and boring lace-up shoes. I wanted nothing more than to simply BE one of the girls, but I quickly came to understand that no matter what, I couldn’t be, and it was obvious from a young age just why I couldn’t be. However, this didn't stop my feelings from overwhelming me at times, and making me feel that I, as a person — not to mention as a member of my family — was fundamentally 'wrong.’

As time went by and my ‘misdemeanour’ was gradually forgotten about, I came to realise that those feelings — along with my responsibilities — were only going to increase as I got older. At the age of 11, I was sent to a very prestigious boarding school near our home in Edinburgh, the same school my brothers attended. There, my teachers made sure to show me the proper ‘respect’ someone of my family’s wealth and ‘station’ apparently deserved. My fellow pupils, on the other hand….

“Hey, Cont-stable!” One of my classmates, a boy named Miller, asked while his friends sniggered. This was the fourth time my name had been called out at me — with the same emphasis on the first syllable — and it was only my second day at the school.

“What?” I asked, only to frown in confusion as the boy and his friends ran off, laughing uproariously. “…What?”

“Don’t- don’t let them get to you,” my brother James — who was two school years above me- said, having obviously witnessed the confrontation from afar. “They’re just idiots who think they’re being funny.”

“I- I don’t get it, though,” I mumbled as James led me toward the junior years' dining hall.

“No, I didn’t either when I started here,” my brother sighed. “Robert had to explain the joke to me.”

“…What joke?” I continued to ask innocently. “Seriously, I- I don’t get it.”

“Okay,” James said with an almost exasperated sigh as we received our meals and sat down at our usual table. “You know the word- the word ‘count,’ right?” I frowned as James asked his unusual question while ensuring that no one could overhear him, as though he was whispering some kind of evil curse to me.

“Yeah, of course, why?” I asked.

“Don’t say it out loud, but mentally remove the letter ‘o’ from it,” James said. “Do you know that word?”

“…No,” I replied truthfully.

“No, I didn’t either when I started here,” James advised. “It- it’s a rude word. A swear word, and probably the worst one, even worse than the F word.”

“…What F word?” I asked innocently, frowning as my brother sighed and muttered something under his breath.

“N- never mind,” James sighed. “But our surname, right? It sounds a lot like that rude word that begins with a ‘C’ with the word ‘stubble’ on the end. That’s what those idiots are laughing at.”

“That’s not very funny,” I said.

“No, I didn’t think so either,” James sighed. “But you’re going to get a lot of that here. A lot of the other kids are going to be jealous of you because of who our father and grandfather are, so they’re going to try to take it out on you, just like they did me and Robert. So, you’re going to need to make sure you’re on your best behaviour at all times, or dad WILL flip his lid.”

“O- okay,” I mumbled.

“God knows Robert had it really bad last year, before he left,” James said. “One of the other kids started a rumour that he was gay, and I don’t think Robert ever got over that.”

“…Gay?” I asked, earning another exasperated sigh from my brother.

“Never mind,” James said again, even as my head started to spin from all the new words I was learning. “You have been SO sheltered by mum and dad. You- you know what Google is, right?”

“Yeah, I know THAT,” I replied.

“Google ‘gay’ when you get back to your dorm and you have some privacy,” James advised. “Just- just don’t click on the images, and if anyone asks, I never told you to do that, okay?”

“Okay,” I mumbled as we picked at our lunches, the topic not coming up again for the rest of the break period.

When I got back to my dorm at the end of the day, though, I took my brother’s words to heart and booted up my laptop, Googling the topics he told me to and feeling as though a door was opened in my mind to a world I never knew existed.

All throughout my childhood, I’d had several ‘facts’ drummed into me. As members of nobility, we had a responsibility to the ‘underclasses’ — but since we were also innately ‘better’ than them, we had to demonstrate it. We had to uphold the traditions of the land- traditions such as attending church (Church of Scotland, of course), dressing smartly at all times, behaving impeccably at every hour of the day, and that a family consists of a man, his wife, and their children. To my family, the notion that a man could love another man, or that a woman could love another woman was simply not a possibility, even as late as 2009. And yet, as I browsed the internet that night, it felt like my eyes were being opened for the very first time.

My initial search brought me to sites about the more 'political' side of LGBT issues, such as Pride and Stonewall, and it was there that I had my first ever encounter with the word ‘transgender.’ As I read blogs and news stories written by transgender people, I found the words resonating with me in a way I’d never felt before — or even ever expected to feel. I found myself engrossed in their tales of how they felt from an early age that they’d been born into the wrong gender, how they’d envied their siblings or school friends, how they’d imagined and sometimes even dreamed of themselves as their preferred gender, and how they'd even taken steps to realise these dreams — not just ‘extreme’ steps like surgery or hormonal treatment, but simple things like wearing the clothing of the opposite gender out in public, to work or school, or even in private.

As I read the tales, I imagined myself in the place of the writer, wondering what it would be like to live life as a girl, to wear the clothes, or even to simply have any female friends. Throughout my entire childhood, the only kids I hung out with — or even had the opportunity to hang out with — were all boys. At first, they were my brothers’ friends, then classmates from school, then team-mates from school sports teams, but in every instance — bar none — they were boys. And with me just a few weeks into years of a stay in an all-boys’ boarding school, that wasn’t about to change. But finally, I at least had an outlet for my frustration, and more importantly, confirmation that what I felt was not wrong, weird, or deviant. If the internet was to be believed, there were hundreds, thousands, or maybe even millions of people just like me all around the world — and to an eleven-year-old boy, this was even more important than being the descendant of a king.

For the next few weeks, I spent every free moment on the internet, reading the same blogs and sometimes even rereading them over and over again. I joined discussion forums where I would — anonymously, of course — be able to air my feelings, and in return, receive nothing but the love and support I so desperately needed. However, every time I logged onto these forums I felt a twinge of sadness as I knew that eventually, I'd have to log off and shut down my computer, and I’d have to go back to being ‘William’ again. However, with every passing day, ‘William’ felt more and more like a mask that I had to wear simply to keep up appearances — though I’d become so adept at ‘hiding myself’ that no one knew about my internet activity (helped by my learning to delete my browser history every evening,) not my teachers, my schoolmates, or even my family.

Gradually, weeks became months, and months became years. None of my family were particularly tall, but as I started to grow up, I found myself feeling increasingly self-conscious — as though I was growing into a body that simply wasn’t mine. However, in this, I still found myself stuck between a rock and a hard place. At the start of my fifth year in September 2013, I stood 5’ 8”, taller than my mother and the same height as my oldest brother, but shorter than James and most of the players on the rugby team — something they were always quick to remind me of every time we played (or rather, were forced to play.) My chest measured 36” and my waist was 30” — smaller still than most of my classmates- and worst of all, I’d started to grow wispy hair on my face and my chin — something that earned me teasing from my classmates, even those who had facial hair themselves. After I turned sixteen in May 2014, I counted down the days until I left school and would be able to start living life on my own terms — and more to the point, would finally be free to begin to explore my gender identity.

However, any hope I had in that regard would be dashed a few months later at the start of the summer school holiday, when my oldest brother gathered the family at our father’s home in Edinburgh.

“Okay, we’re all here, just as you asked,” dad said as Robert stood before us, nervously wringing his hands. “I’m going to ask ‘what’s so important that we all had to gather here’, but I think I already know, heh!”

“Heh,” Robert chuckled along, his nerves clearly overwhelming him. “Ye- yeah, heh. Like you’ve probably already sussed, I- I’ve asked you all to come here as, for the last 3 months, I’ve been- I’ve been seeing, umm, someone.”

“I knew it,” dad whispered to mum, proud smiles on both their faces. “So, are we actually going to meet her, then?”

“Well- umm, they- they’re just outside,” Robert said, wringing his hands nervously. “Charlie, you- you can come in now.” I rose to my feet along with the rest of my family as the reception room’s double doors swung open, and a tall, slender figure strode up to my brother and gave him a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. Immediately, I felt my anxiety levels rise as our father’s face turned bright red with rage.

“Wh- what the- what the HELL IS THIS!?” Dad bellowed, startling me and nearly bringing tears to my sister’s eyes.

“D- dad, family,” Robert said with as much confidence as he could muster. “This it- this is my boyfriend, Charles. We met in our last year of uni, and we started dating, like I said, at the start of May.”

“H- hi,” Charles said in a gentle London accent. “It- it’s nice to meet you a-“

“What the fuck do you think you’re fucking well doing!?” Dad yelled, completely disregarding our guest as he turned his full rage toward my oldest brother.

“Arabella, William, leave the room,” our mother quietly ordered, but before we’d even taken a step, our brother spoke again.

“No, there’s no reason they should go,” Robert said firmly. “Because what I’ve done is nothing wrong. I. Love. Charlie.”

“And I love Robert,” Charlie said, smiling and staring deep into my brother’s eyes as they linked fingers.

“You stay out of this,” dad sneered dismissively. “Did you even stop-“

“No- just no,” Robert interrupted angrily. “Do NOT talk to him like that, because as far as I’m concerned, he’s part of the family now — at least, part of MY family.”

“HE IS NOT PART OF THIS FAMILY, AND IF YOU CARRY ON THE WAY YOU’RE GOING, YOU WON’T BE EITHER!” dad bellowed into my brother’s face, startling myself and James and nearly bringing tears to my sister’s eyes again. “Did you even stop to consider what effect this- THIS would have on your family? What effect this would have on your future title? Because, boy, one day you will be Viscount, and it is your DUTY to produce an heir!”

“I’m not going to deny who I am just for a title!” Robert snapped back, defiantly disregarding the look of sheer outrage on our father’s face. “James can have it after you for all I care. Besides, much more important people have given up much more prestigious titles for the ones they love.”

“You know what?” Fine,” dad said, his demeanour calming but his mood remaining dark as he sat back down in his armchair as though he was a king dispensing judgement from his throne. “If that’s what you want, then you can have it. Consider yourself disinherited from this day forward. I’ll have my will altered tomorrow, and you. Will. Not. Be. In. It. As far as I’m concerned, I now only have three children. And when you do eventually come crawling back, know that you are going to have to work VERY hard before I will even trust you again.”

“If that’s the way it’s going to be,” Robert said, defiantly kissing Charlie’s hand before continuing, “then fine. If you’re not willing to be part of the 21st century, that’s on you. But know this: I will NOT come crawling back. In fact, the only way I’ll come back at all is if you ask me AND Charlie.”

“You know where the door is,” dad grumbled, not even looking at the couple. “Goodbye.”

Needless to say, I haven’t seen my brother or his boyfriend since that day. I occasionally search through social media to see if I can find them on there, but they’ve kept a sufficiently low profile that I’m not able to find either of them. Either that or they have me blocked on every platform….

Regardless, though, it should go without saying that my father’s rejection of my brother brought to a halt any hopes I had that I might be able to explore my gender identity more freely. In the weeks following Robert’s departure, even as my parents and James refused to even say his name, I re-devoted myself to my studies, reading everything I could and desperately avoiding anything even remotely feminine — which wasn’t easy when Arabella would come every evening dressed in her school uniform, or her girl guides uniform, or a ballet leotard, each time making me more and more envious.

As weeks turned into months and I began applying to universities, though, I found the urge to be a girl building more and more until it occupied my every waking thought. At first, I just began browsing the same websites I used to for a few minutes a day, in the hopes that it would somehow satisfy that ‘urge.’ It didn’t take long for those minutes to become hours, as in addition to websites, I began browsing blogs, Instagram accounts, YouTube accounts — not just LGBT accounts, but cisgender bloggers as well, searching for fashion inspiration. And then, in the summer of 2014, I discovered the TV show — and, more specifically, the TV personality — who would change my life forever.

The show’s name was ‘The Angels’, and the personality’s name was Jamie-Lee Burke.

When I first saw the show recommended on a blog, I hadn’t thought much of it — unsurprisingly, reality shows weren’t popular in our household, and I’d also initially believed them to be shallow nonsense. At first, ‘The Angels’ had seemed no different. It was a show that followed around six young bloggers, all of whom were white, middle-class women, five of whom were blonde, five of whom were from London and none of whom seemed to have any major dilemma in their lives beyond what costumes to wear to their birthday parties or what make of handbag they should buy. Two of them — the aforementioned Jamie and her best friend Charlotte — looked so alike they could even be sisters.

And then I discovered that Jamie-Lee Burke — an absolute beauty by any standards — had begun life as a boy named James Travis, and all of a sudden the spark of hope that I thought had been extinguished forever shone brighter than a supernova.

Over the following few months, I — secretly, of course — studied Jamie’s life just as fervently as I studied for my exams. I absorbed every word from her blog, watched all of her videos, drank in her tales of her transition, of her surgeries and even her relationships with her boyfriends — even if the thought of having a boyfriend myself didn’t appeal to my teenaged self. The more I saw of Jamie, the more she seemed truly indistinguishable from any other girl, and while at first I felt that being like her was a simply unattainable goal, I comforted myself with one simple thought — Jamie herself must’ve felt the same way, once upon a time.

As the months passed, I kept up to date with not just Jamie’s life, but with all of the Angels. I (using an anonymous account so that my family couldn’t track my activity) followed all of their social media accounts, watched every episode of their ITV2 show at least three times and even made notes on their style, their preferred brands — everything they posted online about their lives. Of course, I couldn’t tell any of my family about this. In addition to their response toward Robert’s coming out showing their true feelings toward LGBT issues, they had never made any secret of their disdain for what they considered ‘garbage television’. Reality TV shows, talent shows like ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ and even panel shows like ‘Would I Lie to You’ were all targets of their sneers. Even Arabella, who was 13 when ‘The Angels’ began and was as 'core demographic' as it got, saw those shows — and by extension, the people on them — as beneath her.

However, despite having the same upbringing as my siblings, and despite it being repeatedly drilled into me that as a member of a noble family (not just their own opinion of their self-worth, but an actual legal fact), I had an image to uphold at all times, I simply couldn’t reconcile with the idea of one person being inherently ‘better’ than another. My family, my ‘station’ was simply a result of an accident of birth — and so was the fact that I was born a boy, instead of the girl I should have been. The same applied to Jamie and every other transgender individual in the country, and also to my older brother loving men instead of women. To mock a person for something they have no control over — or worse still, to actively try to prevent them from living their truth — was far more abhorrent to me than watching 'trashy' television.

And yet, as I finished my exams and started to look toward university, I couldn’t shake the feeling that what I was doing — or even what I was, full stop — was wrong. That I’d been given a great gift to be part of a family such as mine, and that I should try harder to shake off the feelings that had become the core of my identity (my hidden identity, anyway.) The more my family denied the existence of my older brother, the more I was being prepared — groomed, even — to take a leadership role in the family business. And the more I had those future responsibilities drilled into my head, the more I tried to convince myself that my feeling, my yearnings, were just a silly phase and that I’d soon get over them. After all, what would the Queen think if she returned to find a woman standing where William used to be?

But still, the harder I tried to deny my feelings, the stronger they grew — and every time I watched an episode of The Angels, I was reminded that there was precisely nothing wrong with how I felt. The only thing that I was doing that was ‘wrong’ was denying myself the opportunity to be the girl I truly felt I was on the inside- denying myself the opportunity to truly live, no matter what my family felt. However, during my entire childhood, I never had so much as the chance to express my feminine feelings in any way other than words on a screen — words that I couldn't even claim under my real name.

All that would change, though, at the end of the summer of 2015, when I finally began studying business and economics at St. Andrews University. Finally, I would have my own room and my own private space where I wouldn’t have any unwanted ‘oversight’ from my parents. Thanks to having my own Amazon account and my own debit card, I would quickly be able to build up a collection of clothes, shoes, make-up, jewellery, even a wig — after all, even if my parents did see my bank statement, who’d question a student making multiple online purchases? After the madness of freshers’ week, when we finally settled onto our courses and started studying for real, I wasted no time ordering my 'collection.' Over the course of the next few days, my packages started to arrive, and with nervous, shaking hands I carefully opened them all… and realised that I had precisely zero idea what I was doing.

Over the previous few years I’d obviously watched every episode of the Angels, followed Jamie-Lee Burke’s social media religiously, as well as the other Angels and countless other bloggers, and I considered myself an expert on their styles and looks… little realising that what worked for them wouldn’t necessarily work for me. The clothes I’d bought were all the wrong size — I’d assumed that as I took a small in men’s sizes, that it’d equal a small in women’s, and I couldn’t so much as pull on a pair of panties without them ripping at the seams. The foundation I’d bought was far too light for even my delicate Scottish skin, the blonde wig didn’t suit me…. As I sat among the pile of feminine delights I’d craved for so long, all I could do was weep, and silently curse at myself for being so foolish to think I’d be able to turn myself into a girl so easily. I didn’t have any idea of what style I wanted to convey, of what attitude I wanted to project, or even who I wanted to really be. Hell, I didn’t even have so much as a name — Willamina? Willie? Billie, even? All of them sounded just wrong to me.

Letting out a pained moan, I stuffed my ‘contraband’ into a plastic bag, ready to be either donated to a charity shop or just straight-up thrown away the following day. As I cried myself to sleep that night, I found myself praying for a miracle — anything to help ease my pain, to help me think that maybe, just maybe, my feelings could somehow be validated.

I didn’t hold out much hope as I went to my first class the following morning. However, as I sat down in my usual seat, I was about to get the surprise that would change my life forever.

“Hi,” the voice said in a soft, almost timid Edinburgh accent. “Is- is anyone sitting next to you?” I looked up to see the owner of the voice, and it was all I could do to stop my jaw from hitting the floor.

Stood before me was possibly the most beautiful woman I had ever seen — and I included all the members of the Angels in that list. The girl was tall — almost the same height as me — and slender but had noticeable curves to her hips and her chest, with long, thick hair in a dark brown colour, flawless lightly tanned skin and deep brown eyes. However, as undeniably beautiful as she was, it was her style that I noticed first. A short, tight black skirt clung to her hips and thighs while translucent black tights covered the rest of her legs and tiny flats with dainty silver buckles covered her feet. A tight, crew-necked t-shirt in light grey covered her torso and gave just a hint of cleavage, while a thin red cardigan covered her arms and her back. Her make-up was subtle, but enhanced her already striking eyes, with matte natural-coloured lipliner and long, clear polished nails completing her look. No doubt, every straight guy in the university would give anything to be with this woman. I was probably the only guy who wanted not just that, but to also BE her. In the seconds after I met her, I decided that everything about her look was something I wanted to see on myself- and truly believed that I COULD see on myself.

“S- sure,” I said, gesturing to the seat next to me and trying not to shudder as she sat down, smoothing her skirt underneath her and crossing one leg tightly over the other. “I- I’m William, by the way.”

“Dina,” the girl said with a shy smile. Yes, I thought to myself as the name resonated with me. Yes, you are. And maybe, just maybe, I could be too….