There is a specific kind of magic in shedding what no longer fits. During the heavy, isolated days of the pandemic—just as I was taking my first steps into gender-affirming hormone therapy—I developed a secret ritual of transformation. It began in the quiet solitude of my office at the end of the workday. There, I would layer on the truth of who I was: a sports bra, a vibrant pink running top, crisp white shorts, and black New Balance shoes.
But the world wasn’t quite ready to see her yet, and neither was I. So, over that vibrant reality, I would pull on a heavy disguise of baggy men’s sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt. It felt like stepping into armor—a bulky, coarse outer shell meant to hide the soft, feminine me waiting underneath.
My car became my sanctuary. With my makeup kit resting in the passenger seat, I would drive the short distance to the edge of Santa Rosa’s Railroad Square and park near the head of the Santa Rosa Creek Trail. Looking into the rearview mirror, I would carefully apply my makeup, watching Kimberly slowly emerge. Only then, with my face painted and my heart racing, would I step out of the car, shed the heavy men’s sweatsuit, and let the dry, warm air hit my skin. Standing there in my true clothes, ready to run my three miles, I wasn’t just exercising. For the first time, I was actively inhabiting my own body.
It was October 2020. The Northern California air was warm and dry, carrying that familiar, heavy stillness that always settled over Sonoma County in the autumn. I tapped my Apple Watch to log the workout and stepped onto the pavement.
In the past, running as a male always meant closing myself off to the world. I would put on my headphones, blast music, and block everything out. But running as a woman—as a trans woman—felt entirely different. I left the headphones in the car. I wanted to hear the crunch of gravel under my New Balance shoes, the rustle of the trees along the water, and the quiet flow of the creek. I wanted to be fully present in the world as myself. I wanted to aware of my surroundings for safety, as well.
Even without music to distract me, the Santa Rosa Creek Trail felt safe. In that quiet, open space, my mind would drift to the horizon of my transition. With every stride, I thought about what I truly wanted from my journey. I thought about coming out publicly, about no longer needing to hide my vibrant tops under men’s sweats, and about finally living every hour of my day as the woman running freely on that trail.
With the trail mostly to myself, the few people I did pass felt like gentle anchors to the world. They offered that classic, universal runner’s nod—a silent, respectful acknowledgment of shared effort. But to me, that simple gesture hit entirely different. They weren’t nodding at the heavy sweatshirt I had left in the car; they were acknowledging the woman running right in front of them.
As the miles ticked by on my watch, the physical sensations of the workout became a profound source of joy. I could feel the sweat beginning to bead and build up on my cleanly shaven legs, glistening in the dry October light. My sports bra did its job, supporting my breasts as my body moved, and I watched with a quiet sense of awe as patterns of sweat began to form around the fabric of my top. These weren’t just signs of exertion; they were beautiful, tangible proof that I was working hard inside my own body.
And then, there was my hair. It was still relatively short, but long enough to gather into a tiny, emerging ponytail. With every single stride I took, I could feel it lightly bouncing against the back of my neck. That small, rhythmic bounce brought a rush of pure, unadulterated joy — gender euphoria mixed with a runner’s high. For three miles along that creek, I wasn’t hiding, performing, or holding my breath. I was just a woman, running and fully alive in her own skin.
Every run ended exactly the same way: with a post-run selfie. For years, while presenting to the world as a man, I was known as someone who rarely, if ever, smiled in photos. It wasn’t that I was angry; I was just absent, disconnected from the face looking back at me.
But out there on the edge of the trail, with the sun beginning to set and my small ponytail resting against the back of my neck, the smiles came effortlessly. They weren’t forced for the camera; they were the natural overflow of a woman finally recognizing herself. When I posted those selfies to my Instagram account, I wasn’t just sharing a workout. I was broadcasting a breakthrough. The woman in those photos was sweaty, exhausted, and vibrantly, undeniably alive.