I was 12 years old when I first experienced aversion to my family’s concept of gender. It was fall 2019, and I was staying with family in New York City for a weekend. I have a clear memory of being in the shower when my older cousin walked into the bathroom to get something. I don’t remember what I said to her, but I must’ve expressed the extreme discomfort I felt at the time, because I remember her responding with something like “we have all the same parts. Why does it matter?” I just wanted to have some privacy during the 10 or so minutes I was in the bathroom, but apparently it was okay for my cousin to come because we were both girls, because “we have the same parts”. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the start of my years-long critique of my family’s version of womanhood.