Memoir Short: That One Time my Beard Saved my Life

It’s just that the one part that made it all so impressive was a lie

CW: disordered eating, medical treatment, family and intimate partner abuse, domestic violence.

TW: graphic images depicted facial injury.

I don’t talk about my fit gym boy years that often anymore.

Not because they don’t exist. They happened. I spent fifteen or so years boosting my previously non-existent testosterone and training my ass off in the gym.

They’re real. It’s just that a lot happened over the last few years, and it doesn’t take much to shift your perspective.

I only ever performed mock meets, but I pseudo-qualified as a Class 1 lifter with a powerlifting total of 1150lbs (NO REP!) at a bodyweight of 180-ish pounds.

I didn’t get there alone. No one ever does.

It’s just that the one part of it that made it all so impressive, was a lie.

YOUR FIRST TASK IS TO GOMAD

The guys who welcomed me into their community did more than teach me how to lift weights. I came to them as overwhelmed with my disordered eating as ever. I’d gotten out of the last hospital — a two-year stint for anorexia and a lot more — not even a decade before I’d met these guys. I even told them a little about it, though never the real truth to anyone (until recently).

A lot of the guys helped me in ways beyond words. They accepted me as one of their own. They taught me how to train. How to thrive. Under their tutelage, I excelled to the point that I won that community’s most treasured award.

I became a symbol of what a normal person could achieve if they stuck to the plan. And as long as they never found out I was a girl, I believed I would be safe.

I’M IN THE BEST SHAPE OF MY LIFE

After yo-yoing my eating and my weight until I’d just given up, I was a slightly pudgy mid-twenties girl desperate to never, ever, EVER feel scared that the people around me would hurt me again. My new gym community would teach me the way.

It worked.

They taught me how to eat. They taught me how to exercise. They taught me how to measure my fitness according to concrete traits. They taught me to value my body for what it was, to embrace what it could do on its own just as it was — if I would simply give it a chance to breathe, sweat, and grow.

They taught me to love food as more than fuel. To occasionally eat a donut and maybe pick the one that tasted the best to me.

They brought me back to riding a bicycle and how a good ride contributes to strength in unexpected ways.

NO, I’M NOT HOMELESS, JUST HOUSELESS

By the time I finished grad school, I finally felt strong enough to escape a nearly ten-year-long abusive relationship (I accepted her harmful behavior, like the beard, because it kept me safe until it didn’t). I moved to a new state, ditched any hope of a car, and soon began riding my bicycle to and from the gym — six miles total — with two (or more) hours of time at the gym under the bar.

I WAS A GIRL

I was a girl. I was never going to get as big as Ronnie Coleman. I couldn’t even match Rob Riches (though I easily earned the monicker “DiMichele Incarnate”). But with dedication and consistency due in part to me being neuro-divergent — if you give me simple instructions, I will be more focused and productive than you can imagine, but if you won’t let me focus (!!) — I reshaped my body into something new.

I’d always been good at using my body. Martial arts, sports, gymnastics, whatever, the rules almost never made sense to me, but when it came to the music of my body, I could always just play.

This, however, was something else.

This wasn’t a skill. An ability. It wasn’t even just strength.

With the simple addition of a beard, this body would be my armor.

THAT ONE TIME MY BEARD SAVED MY LIFE

It happened when I left the gym. I don’t remember much of what happened, and not just because of the injury. But that part won’t make sense unless I tell you what happened.

And, my god, did it happen fast.

I left the gym. I got on my bicycle. I, as usual, didn’t wear a helmet.

If you knew the things I’d done as a kid…this was actually safe. Comparatively, I mean.

Given the miles I put on the road, I ran through bicycles like Lance Armstrong went through PEDs. Hey…am I allowed to say that? My hormones are store-bought, too.

This new bike had quick-release tires. Easy to take on and off because I took jumps here and there that sometimes blew through the tires. Well this time, the tire blew and threw me.

I have no memory of what happened then. Just what people told me and the facts of what HAD to have happened.

I got on the bike. I pressed my foot to the pedal. I made it a short distance through the parking lot.

And the front wheel came off.

I flew over the handlebars.

The pavement welcomed the left side of my face with a deceptive embrace I hadn’t seen since my father. The impact sent me into unconsciousness.

I would never be the same.

The pavement welcomed the left side of my face with a deceptive embrace I hadn’t seen since my father.

YER A GIRL, HARRY

The impact of the concrete forced me to confront the impact of my decisions.

The beard saved my life. It gave me a chance to feel safe, to build my resources, to gather allies who could help me take the next step forward.

The beard made everyone think I was a boy. Without it, people almost instantly suspected something was…different. But adding a shaved head completed the illusion.

The chiseled body I cultivated over a decade of hard training — I wore it the same way I wore that beard. I wore it like armor.

Then the doctors let me know they both had to go. I had a brain injury now. My mind simply could not — even if my body ever could — perform as it once had.

I had limits. Pushing against them would no longer make me a stronger person. Maybe doing so never had. I would slowly deteriorate even further. My mind would go from a steady chaos to the final moments before the end.

The surgeons couldn’t continue their work on my face unless the beard came under control. It was the first step in me learning to let go.

My mind couldn’t heal unless I released my frantic pursuit of the gym body everyone else would never see through.

But that body was as fragile as Clark Kent’s glasses. The person behind them might be strong, but the disguise would never withstand more than a second glance.

With one sudden twist, the lies had collapsed like a house of cards.

“THE AMAZING BEARD MIGHT HAVE SAVED HALF YOUR FACE.”

The thing is that if you look at that beard, my god, it’s worthy of endorsement from Paul Bunyan.

I talked above about the emotional and mental protection the beard offered me. A lot of you other girls with transgender experiences (or you boys who might be headed the other direction) will know what I mean. When you’re in a fight with your body not to go the wrong direction, it can sometimes feel like your safety requires you to drop to your knees and admit defeat.

When you’re in a fight with your body not to go the wrong direction, it can sometimes feel like your safety requires you to drop to your knees and admit defeat.

THAT BEARD ALMOST GOT ME KILLED

That beard saved my life.

But in a weird way, it almost got me killed.

I wore it in service to a lie. It was never meant to last.

I got hurt in part because of my relentless pursuit of that lie. Maybe if I’d just let myself relax long enough to put on a helmet, none of it would have happened.

THAT BEARD ALMOST GOT ME KILLED

On the other hand, that beard saved my life. That beard let me live in all the other ways I otherwise couldn’t until I was ready to face what came without it.

What I discovered is that reaching our limits doesn’t mean we never get back on our feet. You’re only human. You can’t help but need a chance to breathe.

You’re only human. You can’t help but need a chance to breathe.

My injury forced me to take that chance. I was fortunate enough to have people around me who have proven to be my fiercest allies in all the ways that matter. They watched over me while I slept, while my brain healed, while my body let go of a fight it was never going to win.

Even my twin brother showed up for me — because narcissists, abusers, and predators are never only one thing. And not just because this particular person was often all three rolled into one. The most successful among them are often the most generous. And for many years, my brother was my proudest protector.

I had to let go of my brother’s destructive protection as much as I had to let go of the beard. Neither one of them showed up for me unless I agreed to live their lie. Unless I agreed to only boast about their glory and all they’d done for me. Unless I agreed to hold them close as a shield, even when it became clear any measure of success I’d achieved had never been because of them. It had always been despite them.

My life changed after that accident (and not just by me coming out as transgender with that Writer’s Digest article bio). I have new limits. They demand respect. And in those humble lessons, they teach me new respect for my old limits, too. The ones I thought I could defeat if the gym could just make me stronger.

It turns out the only strength I needed comes from the truest part inside of me. The one it had taken all my might to keep from breaking free.

THE END (DAMN GIRL, THAT’S DARK)

If you like my work and want to support it, send me a tip or become a subscriber for Queer History on Patreon, Medium, YouTube, or Substack