**This post contains the usage of the f-slur as it’s a term I’ve found encompasses me to a certain capacity. If this offends you, please feel free to keep scrolling**
I think there’s a point when people give up on you. And that sounds more melodramatic than I intend, but there’s truth to it. So often we talk about trans people from a place of unlearning and relearning gendered roles in society, but what about those that were never taught at all? An argument can be made that most gendered thoughts and behaviors come from the unconscious – what is reproduced in the world around us – and I don’t discredit that. But how does the world teach gender to a child whose gender is unintelligible, a lost cause? A father can only teach his “son” so much. The most formal gender schooling I received was years of sports, before he realized I was a lost cause. An incredibly awkward sex talk, before he realized I was a lost cause. Scoldings for playing my mother’s heels, before he realized I was a lost cause. Treated like a fag and lived as a closeted transsexual: the gift of visibility is one I would not force on anyone.
Some people have the capability to be straight-passing, cis-passing, white-passing, but in truth I’ve never tasted that luxury. I wasn’t always an outcast, though there were times when it certainly felt like I was, but I was always visible. Like a lighthouse on the shore directing all eyes on me the moment I walked into a room. I do not have the luxury of blending into the shadows or disappearing into a crowd, so I learned to lean into it.
Visibility is a blessing and a curse. It drives away those who would cast malice behind my back but encourages those who would to my face. But the pressures of constantly being seen take a toll. Eyes glued to you no matter where you go, the way you talk, the way you walk, the way you carry yourself cut open and dissected for the world to see. In my case, to be seen is to be known. You’re turned inside out with your most delicate vulnerabilities on display. But in that comes community. Whether it’s an innocuous smile across the room from someone just like you, or unknowingly giving a stranger the confidence to start living, to be seen is to exist outside of yourself. To be seen is to contain multitudes. To be seen is heavy, but it is never a burden one must shoulder alone.
Unruly Bodies 
I don’t think there’s a greater feeling in the world than realizing there’s another transsexual in the room with me. While the burden of visibility does have significant power in making our bodies feel out of place, the fact that I can see a queer (or be seen), and in that moment be assured or assure another queer that we are not alone in this world, is such a beautiful thing. It is as you said: We do not have to shoulder this alone.
“I think there’s a point when people give up on you. And that sounds more melodramatic than I intend, but there’s truth to it.”
Your opening statement really pulled me in and resonated with me deeply. I think this is something that can be applied to so many scenarios for different marginalized communities, not just growing up trans. It reminds me of life with chronic illness, in which sometimes friends, peers, or those with authority above you get tired of your “excuses” as to why you can’t perform work tasks or even go to social events — I’ve found myself having friendships that start out accommodating of my ill health only to have them either drift away slowly or eventually get frustrated and snap over my ill health “getting in the way.”
I also think you really eloquently stated how hypervisibility can absolutely be a curse, especially when it extends to how society perceives transfemininity. The way transfem gender dynamics are seen by society quite literally reminds me of the concept of the panopticon — you are being observed, but only so that you may be corrected or shamed.