Tomorrow is my birthday. My mother called today to ask for my daughter—but still refuses to acknowledge I exist.

I don’t even know what I want out of this post. I think I just need to say it.

I’m Maya. I’m a trans woman. I’m an amputee. I’m a debut author whose first novel was accepted into the f**king Library of Congress. I have a daughter who thinks I’m magic. A partner, Misty, who has stood beside me through fire. I have friends who have carried me when I couldn’t carry myself. I’ve done things most people told me I never would.

And I still feel like I’m failing at existing.

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Today, my mother called — not to talk to me. Not to say “Happy Birthday.” Not even to acknowledge I’m alive. She called to ask if my daughter, Madison, could come stay the weekend… so she could celebrate my nephew’s birthday. Mine wasn’t mentioned. Not once. Like I’m not even part of the equation anymore. Like I’m a ghost she has to step around to get to the people she still deems worth acknowledging.

She lives ten miles away. She hasn’t spoken to me since December 25th, 2022. She hasn’t seen me in person since I transitioned — September 18, 2020. She’s stood on my porch. She’s been in my world, just close enough to remind me she still chooses to look through me. She calls Misty. She visits Madison. But not once has she looked at me and said, “I see you.”

My siblings ghosted me the same Christmas. Just… vanished. No call. No explanation. Nothing. Like someone flipped a switch and I became invisible.

I cut my father out of my life in May or June of 2009, and even he used to send me a birthday message every year. One line. A “thinking of you.” Something. Until I transitioned. Then it stopped. Just like that.

And the thing is, I expected this kind of rejection. I expected this behavior when I came out — not two years later. Not after rebuilding trust. Not after showing up with love, with patience, with hope. But even knowing it could happen doesn’t soften the blow. I know they’re not good people. I know their silence is a reflection of them, not me. So why the fuck does it still hurt this much?

They voted for people who want me erased. They deadname me. Misgender me. Tell their friends I’m sick, confused, an attention seeker — anything but who I really am. They whisper about me like I died. But I didn’t. I lived. I transformed. I fought for a name they refuse to say out loud.

I built something out of the wreckage. I wrote a novel that was chosen for preservation by the Library of Congress. I made art from trauma, joy from ashes, life from a body they wanted to shame me out of. And still… I sit here wondering why I’m crying the night before my birthday. Wondering why I feel like I’m mourning people who were never capable of loving me in the first place.

I don’t want pity. I’m not posting this for attention. I’m just tired of pretending this doesn’t ache. Tired of performing strength just to make other people comfortable. Some wounds don’t close, even when you heal.

Thanks for listening, if you made it this far.
—Maya