The Safety of a Queer Space: The Boundaries We Draw in Blood

The dress felt right when I left the house. Emerald green, hitting just below the knee, fitted but not tight—the kind of thing that made me feel like myself instead of some failed approximation. Keira had smiled when I came downstairs, that small upturn of lips that meant yes, that's exactly right, and I'd felt that flutter of gender euphoria that never gets old no matter how many times you experience it. We were heading to Moritomo's, the Japanese place downtown where the sushi chef remembered my name and nobody gave a fuck what bathroom I used.

Three blocks from the restaurant, everything shifted.

The truck was blue, primer-spotted, exhaust belching black shit into October air. It slowed as we approached the crosswalk, and I felt it before I heard it—that particular quality of attention that makes your spine lock up, that survival instinct trans women develop after enough close calls. The window rolled down manual-style, cranking with deliberate slowness.

You look like a fucking moron in that outfit, you fag.

His voice carried that particular brand of masculine certainty, the kind that comes from never having to question whether you deserve to exist in public space. Mid-thirties, baseball cap, the kind of face that would be unremarkable except for how it twisted around those words, making them land like punches.

I froze. Fifty-three years old, survived my brother trying to murder me, lived through decades of K1 fighting and religious abuse and every goddamn thing that should have made me bulletproof, and I fucking froze on that sidewalk with my hands going numb and my throat closing up.

Leave her the FUCK alone, you asshole!

Keira's voice cut through everything—through traffic noise and my panic and the asshole's engine revving. She stepped forward, putting herself between me and the truck, and her voice carried the kind of fury that makes cowards remember they're cowards. He peeled out, tires squealing, gone before I could even process what happened.

We stood there on the sidewalk. My hands were shaking. Keira's jaw was set in that way that meant she was vibrating with protective rage, her whole body coiled like she wished he'd stayed so she could continue the conversation with her fists.

You okay? Her voice was softer now, just for me.

Yeah, I lied, because what else do you say when someone throws your identity at you like a weapon on a random Tuesday evening?

We ate sushi. It tasted like cardboard. I kept replaying it—not just his words, but my response. The freezing. The way I'd gone silent and small, like if I made myself invisible enough he'd forget he'd seen me. Like I'd learned nothing from fifty-three years of this shit.

By the time we got to the Sanctuary, I felt like my skin was on inside-out.

The basement smelled like Della's kitchen—something involving cayenne and butter, probably her blackened catfish that could resurrect the dead. The Cult's "She Sells Sanctuary" bled through the speakers, Ian Astbury's voice wrapping around the brick walls that Ezra and crew had painted that perfect sunset crimson. Miguel looked up from behind the bar, his face doing that thing where he knows something's wrong before you say a word.

Mom. He said it like a question and a statement. What happened?

I slid onto my usual stool, feeling every year of my age in my bones. Keira settled beside me, her hand resting near mine on the bar—not touching, never touching in public, but close enough that I could feel her heat.

What're you pouring tonight?

Miguel's eyes searched my face for a second longer, then he turned to his bottles. Got a single barrel bourbon that's been aging in my heart, Mom. Maker's Mark Private Select. Oak staves kissed it for months until it learned to speak in tongues.

He poured two fingers into a plastic cup that somehow made it taste more honest. The bourbon hit my tongue like smoke and caramel and the kind of burn that reminds you you're still alive. I took another sip before I said anything.

Had an incident. Before dinner.

The words came out flat, factual, but Keira's shoulders tensed beside me.

Some motherfucker in a truck, she said, her voice carrying edge that could cut glass, decided Wendy needed his opinion about her outfit. Called her a fag.

And a moron, I added, because apparently my brain was cataloging the abuse for future reference. Don't forget moron.

Ezra appeared from their beanbag throne, blue hair catching the light like electric silk. What the actual fuck? Mom, are you—

I'm fine. I took another sip. Keira scared him off.

Damn right I did. Keira's voice carried satisfaction and residual fury in equal measure.

Della emerged from the kitchen, spatula in hand like a weapon. Someone needs their ass kicked? Because I got this nice cast iron skillet warming up that could use some face time.

He drove away before we could get a plate number. I stared at my bourbon. Which is probably good because I don't need an assault charge.

Self-defense, Mom. Miguel wiped down the bar with automatic precision. Words like that are violence.

Yeah, but the law doesn't see it that way. I swirled my drink. The law sees a trans woman who got her feelings hurt, not someone whose existence got weaponized at a fucking crosswalk.

Heart's "Barracuda" kicked in, Ann Wilson's voice promising violence through guitar riffs that tasted like vindication. Leila looked up from her phone, political radar pinging.

This is what I'm talking about. She gestured with her phone, screen showing some fresh legislative bullshit probably. This is the climate they're creating. Permission structure for every asshole with a truck and an opinion to make our existence their business.

But what do you do? The question came from Chris, sitting in his usual corner looking perpetually uncomfortable with his own presence. I mean, do you just... tell everyone? Isn't that asking for trouble?

The question hung there like smoke. Remy lit a cigarette, exhaling philosophy with tobacco. Bubba shifted in his chair near the window, and I caught the way Remy's eyes tracked that movement for just a half-second longer than necessary before he spoke. Mon Dieu, that's the question, isn't it? When do we show our cards, when do we hold them close?

Marcus spun his wedding ring, nervous energy made kinetic. I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Sara found my magazines. Bi guys, porn, whatever. And she asked me point blank—am I gay? Do I want to leave her?

What'd you tell her? Phoenix's voice cracked with accumulated damage, their purple and gold hair catching light.

I told her the truth. Marcus looked miserable. That I'm bisexual. That I'm attracted to men and women. That it doesn't mean I want to leave her or cheat on her or that our marriage is a lie.

How'd that go? Ezra was leaning forward, invested.

She thinks I'm secretly gay and using her as cover. The words came out bitter. Because apparently bisexual men don't exist. We're just confused or closeted or lying to ourselves.

That's erasure, cher. Remy's accent thickened with conviction. Different flavor than what Mom experienced, but same poison root. Telling you your identity ain't real, that you're performing something false.

But is it safer? Chris leaned forward, his evangelical certainty warring with genuine confusion. If people think you're straight, Marcus, doesn't that protect you from... that. He gestured vaguely at me, like I was object lesson in visibility's consequences.

I felt something hot and sharp spike through my chest. You think I should hide? Stay in the fucking closet so assholes feel more comfortable?

I didn't say that—

You implied it. Keira's voice was quiet, dangerous. You implied that Wendy being visible is the problem, not the bigot who decided to make her existence his entertainment.

Chris's face reddened. I just meant... God calls us to be wise. To not cast pearls before swine. If you know someone's going to hurt you, why give them the opportunity?

Because hiding kills us. Leila's voice cut through with surgical precision. Staying closeted for safety means dying inside while your body keeps walking around. You think that's what your God wants? People suffocating behind performed identities?

The church says—

Fuck what the church says. Della slammed the spatula down. The church has been using God to justify beating down queer folks since they figured out we existed. Don't quote scripture at people who've survived what scripture's been used to excuse.

Erin had been quiet, journalist instincts probably cataloging everything. Now she spoke carefully. I've been thinking about this since I started coming here. I'm pansexual, which most people don't understand or care about. I can pass as straight if I'm with a guy, pass as lesbian if I'm with a woman. Sometimes that feels like privilege, sometimes it feels like being invisible no matter what I do.

It's different for trans folks. Phoenix's voice was barely above whisper. You can choose when to share your sexuality, maybe. I can't hide being non-binary. It's in how I look, how I move, what pronouns I use. People see me and decide I'm a problem before I open my mouth.

Same. I stared at my bourbon like it held answers. I'm six feet tall, my voice is still deepening from HRT, my shoulders are broad, my hands are big. I can wear the perfect dress and do my makeup flawlessly and there's still something that reads wrong to people who are looking for wrong.

So what're your boundaries? Miguel asked softly. Around sharing? Around visibility?

I thought about the truck. The frozen moment. Keira's fury protecting me. The way we'd eaten sushi and I'd tasted nothing but shame—not for being trans, but for freezing, for going small, for letting him make me feel like I should apologize for existing.

I don't know anymore. The admission felt like failure. I spent so many years hiding. Performing masculinity like it was a suicide mission, beating myself up through K1 fighting trying to kill the woman inside. Then I came out and it destroyed my marriage and broke my relationship with Gizmo and nearly got me murdered by my own brother. My voice cracked. And tonight some random motherfucker in a truck made me feel like maybe I should have stayed hidden. Maybe visibility isn't worth the constant fucking target on my back.

Mom. Ezra's voice was fierce. No. You don't get to let that asshole win. You don't get to decide that his violence means you should disappear.

But what if Chris is right? The words tasted like poison. What if being visible just makes me a target? What if the smart thing is to blend, to hide, to make myself smaller so people like him don't notice me?

Then you die anyway. Remy's cigarette glowed red in the dim light. Bubba made a sound of agreement, deep and resonant, and Remy's shoulder relaxed fractionally at the validation. Maybe not your body, Mom, but the part that matters. My mama used to say, 'Tu ne peux pas vivre dans l'ombre et te plaindre de manquer de soleil.' You can't live in shadow and complain about missing sunshine.

Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me" kicked through the speakers, Robin Zander's voice begging for recognition that felt too on-the-nose.

My parents kicked me out for being non-binary. Phoenix's voice shook. River and I live in constant fear that my dad will show up, that my mom won't be strong enough to leave him, that being visible means being vulnerable. But I can't go back in the closet. I tried. For years I tried being what they wanted. It almost killed me.

There's different kinds of boundaries. Marcus was thinking out loud. There's strategic invisibility—like, I don't tell my boss I'm bi because I work in manufacturing with guys who think gay jokes are peak comedy. That's self-preservation, not shame.

But there's also erasure masquerading as safety. Leila pulled up something on her phone. Look at these stats. Trans people who live authentically report better mental health outcomes than those who hide, even accounting for discrimination and violence. Because hiding is its own violence. Death by a thousand tiny self-erasures.

I'm not saying everyone needs to be out everywhere. Keira's voice was measured, pulling me back from the edge I was spiraling toward. I'm saying that asshole in the truck doesn't get to dictate Wendy's boundaries. She does.

But what are they? I heard the desperation in my own voice. How do I know when being visible is brave versus stupid? When passing is safety versus cowardice?

Miguel poured me another finger of bourbon without asking. Mom, you wrote a whole fucking book about surviving family violence. You write stories about all of us, making sure people know we existed, that we mattered. You think that's not a boundary? Deciding what stories get told and how?

That's different—

How? Della emerged from the kitchen with a plate of something that smelled like salvation. You choose what to write, who to write about, what details to include. You choose when to use our real names versus protecting our privacy. Those are boundaries. You make them every time you sit down to write.

The Clash's "Should I Stay or Should I Go" filled the space with perfect irony, Joe Strummer asking the question I'd been asking my whole fucking life.

I just keep thinking about freezing. The admission felt like peeling skin off. He said those words and I went completely blank. Like some part of me agreed with him, like I deserved it.

That's trauma, Mom. Phoenix's voice carried weight of recognition. That's your body remembering every other time someone's attacked you. Your brother trying to kill you, your ex-wife leaving, your daughter not speaking to you, every fucking microaggression and macro-aggression. Your nervous system is just trying to keep you alive.

By making me small and silent?

By trying to prevent the next attack. They leaned forward. But that's not a boundary, Mom. That's a cage disguised as protection.

Chris cleared his throat, his face showing the kind of conflict that meant his worldview was cracking. I don't... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you should hide. I just... I grew up being taught that being gay was wrong, that God hated it, that the loving thing was to stay closeted and celibate. And I'm trying to reconcile that with... this. He gestured around the bar. With all of you being so fucking honest about who you are.

So what's your boundary, Chris? Bubba's deep voice rumbled from his window seat. Remy turned toward him when he spoke, something attentive in the way his whole body oriented to Bubba's words. Where's the line between living your truth and keeping yourself safe from your God's followers?

I don't know. Chris looked genuinely lost. I came here because I needed to be around other gay people. But I still go to church. I still pray. I still believe God loves me, even if my pastor says otherwise.

That's a boundary. Erin spoke up. You're choosing which parts of your faith community's teaching to accept and which to reject. You're setting limits on what doctrine gets access to your self-worth.

Maybe boundaries aren't about hiding or showing. Marcus was still spinning that ring. Maybe they're about choosing who gets the full truth, who gets the edited version, and who gets told to fuck off entirely.

Sara gets truth? Miguel asked.

She's supposed to. Marcus's face twisted. But now she's using my truth against me. Saying my attraction to men threatens our marriage, that I must be suppressing my 'real' sexuality. She's weaponizing my honesty.

Then maybe she doesn't get access anymore. Della's voice was flat. If someone takes your vulnerability and turns it into ammunition, you stop giving them bullets.

But she's my wife—

So was Zoe to Mom. Keira's voice was ice. Zoe took Wendy's trust and used it to isolate her, beat her, control her. Being married doesn't mean someone earned the right to weaponize your identity.

I thought about my ex-wife. The woman who'd spent twenty-five years married to someone performing masculinity, who'd been blindsided by my coming out, who had every right to feel betrayed by my decades of hiding. We were trying to rebuild something—not marriage, but civility for Gizmo's sake. But there were boundaries now that hadn't existed before. Things I didn't tell her. Parts of my transition journey that weren't hers to witness. Not from cruelty, but from self-preservation.

I think... I started slowly, bourbon helping me articulate something still forming. I think boundaries around identity are like... concentric circles. There's the core—who I am, what I know to be true about myself. That's non-negotiable. Nobody gets to tell me I'm not a woman, that my gender isn't real, that I'm performing something false.

Amen to that, Mom. Ezra raised their drink.

Then there's the next circle—chosen family. You all. People who've proven they see me, accept me, protect me when some asshole tries to make me small. I looked at Keira. People who yell at trucks on my behalf.

Her lips quirked in almost-smile.

Beyond that... I gestured vaguely. The world. Strangers, coworkers, random people at restaurants. And I get to choose how much they know. Whether I'm stealth or visible, passing or obviously trans, depending on context and safety and what I can fucking handle that day.

And nobody gets to tell you those choices make you brave or cowardly. Leila's voice carried conviction. Because they're not moral judgments. They're survival calculations.

What about writing? Miguel topped off my drink. Where does that fall?

That's... I paused, thinking about the stories accumulating in files on my computer. Wendy's Bar Stories, fifty-plus of them now, each one documenting this family and our survival. That's testimony. That's me saying we existed, we mattered, we survived. That's my boundary pushing outward, making space for people who might need it someday.

So the truck asshole doesn't get to change that. Remy's cigarette had burned down to filter. He stubbed it out with more force than necessary, and Bubba's hand shifted on the table—not quite reaching toward Remy, but the intention was there in how his fingers moved before stopping. You're still going to write. Still going to be visible. Still going to wear that pretty green dress even though some motherfucker decided to make it his business.

I guess. I felt something unclenching in my chest. But I'm also going to freeze sometimes. I'm going to have moments where I go small and silent because my trauma response overrides my courage. And that doesn't make me less trans or less brave. It just makes me human.

And traumatized. Phoenix's voice was gentle. Don't forget traumatized, Mom. Your body is trying to protect you. Maybe the boundary is giving yourself permission to freeze without judging yourself for it.

The bourbon was warm in my belly now, smoothing sharp edges. When I was fighting K1, I learned about the fence. The moment between seeing the punch coming and deciding whether to block or slip or eat it. That's where fights are won or lost—in that microsecond of decision.

What's that got to do with boundaries? Chris asked, genuinely curious.

Everything. That moment when the truck slowed, when I felt his attention before I heard his words—that was my fence moment. I could have kept walking, ignoring him. Could have yelled back. Could have flipped him off. Instead I froze, which felt like failure. But maybe... I paused, thinking it through. Maybe freezing was also a choice. Maybe my body decided that engaging with his violence wasn't worth the energy. That preserving myself internally mattered more than defending myself externally.

That's some wise shit, Mom. Della emerged with more food—her bacon mac and cheese, probably, given how it smelled like heart attacks and heaven. You're saying boundaries aren't just about controlling what others see. They're about controlling what you give away, what you engage with, what gets to cost you something.

Yeah. The word came out surprised. Yeah, exactly.

Marcus leaned back, his face showing relief. So when Sara weaponizes my bisexuality, I don't owe her more vulnerability. I can set boundaries about what we discuss, what access she has to my interior world. That's not hiding—that's protection.

Precisely, cher. Remy lit another cigarette. My mama, she was openly lesbian in Louisiana backwater when that could get you killed. But she also knew which neighbors got truth and which got polite lies. Which cousins got invited to Sunday dinner and which got told we were busy. Boundaries built the space where she could breathe.

I keep all my art pretty private. Sage spoke up from their corner, voice quiet but carrying. People see me drawing and they want to comment, to interpret, to make my creation about them. So I don't show most of what I make. Not from shame, but because some things are just mine.

That's a boundary. Erin was writing notes now, journalist brain cataloging everything. Creative autonomy as form of self-protection.

The music shifted to something instrumental I didn't recognize, bass line threading through conversation. I watched Miguel pour drinks for Ezra and Phoenix, watched Della emerge with more plates, watched Keira reading beside me with that quality of attention that meant she was actually listening to everything while appearing detached. This was it. This was the boundary I'd drawn—this basement, these people, this sanctuary where plastic cups held more meaning than crystal goblets ever could.

You know what I realized? I said it to the room, to my bourbon, to the universe. That asshole in the truck? He doesn't exist in here. His words don't penetrate these walls. This is sovereign territory—the Sanctuary Bar, where his violence has no jurisdiction.

Damn right. Miguel's voice carried fierce satisfaction.

So maybe that's the boundary. I was thinking aloud, working through it as I spoke. I can be visible in the world, wear my dresses and live my truth, knowing that violence might happen. But I also get to retreat here, to chosen family, to safety. And both of those are valid choices. Both of those are me exercising agency over my own existence.

The boundary isn't about being visible or invisible. Leila looked up from her phone, eyes bright. It's about claiming the right to choose, situation by situation, what feels authentic versus what feels safe. And sometimes they're the same thing, and sometimes they're not, and both responses are legitimate.

I just don't want to be afraid anymore. The admission felt like skinning myself. I'm so tired of calculating risk every time I leave the house. Of monitoring who's looking at me, how they're looking, whether I pass or clock myself, whether my voice sounds female enough, whether this outfit reads right or wrong. I want to just... exist. Without it being political or dangerous or fucking newsworthy.

We all want that, Mom. Phoenix's voice cracked. But until the world changes, we protect ourselves however we can. Strategic visibility. Careful disclosure. Building sanctuaries like this where we don't have to calculate anything except whether we want another drink.

Keira finally spoke, her voice cutting through everything else. You don't owe anyone your trauma story to justify your boundaries. You don't have to explain why you froze, why you went silent, why you didn't fight back. You were walking to dinner in a dress that made you happy, and some coward decided to make that his problem. That's on him, not you.

Something shifted in my chest, sharp edges smoothing. You know what? Fuck that guy.

There she is. Della grinned. There's my angry mom.

No, I mean it. Fuck him and his truck and his opinion. I looked good in that dress. I felt good. And for three blocks I got to walk with my partner toward dinner feeling like myself, feeling free, until he decided to make my existence his entertainment. But you know what? He drove away. He didn't stay to face Keira's fury or my response. He threw his violence and ran like the fucking coward he is.

And you're still here. Remy exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. Still visible. Still trans. Still taking up space. That's the boundary that matters, Mom. You choosing to keep existing loudly despite motherfuckers trying to silence you.

I still froze though.

And you'll unfreeze. Miguel's voice was gentle. Trauma doesn't have a timeline, Mom. Recovery isn't linear. Sometimes you freeze, sometimes you fight back, sometimes you just survive the moment and process it later. All of those are valid responses to violence.

Chris was quiet for a long moment before speaking. I think I've been using God as permission to hide. Telling myself that being closeted was about wisdom and protection, when really it was about shame. About believing on some level that being gay was wrong, that I should minimize myself to make straight people comfortable.

That's internalized homophobia, brother. Ezra's voice was kind. We all got it to some degree. The world spends years telling us we're wrong, that we're broken, that we should be different. That shit gets inside and poisons from within.

How do you fight it?

You practice boundaries. Phoenix leaned forward. You start small. Maybe you correct someone's pronouns. Maybe you hold your partner's hand in public even though you're scared. Maybe you tell your family the truth even though you know they'll react badly. Each boundary you enforce makes the next one easier.

Or it doesn't. My voice was wry. Sometimes it stays hard. Sometimes every disclosure feels like stepping off a cliff. But you do it anyway because the alternative is suffocation.

Marcus held up his glass. To boundaries, then. To choosing when to be visible and when to protect ourselves. To chosen family who yells at trucks on our behalf.

We drank. The bourbon burned less now, going down smooth like truth finally spoken.

You wearing that dress again? Della asked, her voice challenging.

I thought about it. About the truck and the words and how I'd frozen. About Keira's fury defending me. About this basement full of people who saw me, accepted me, loved me without condition or hesitation. About Gizmo, who used to sing with me in the car when she was small, her voice hitting notes that made my heart ache. About every trans woman who'd died because someone decided their existence was threat requiring violence.

Yeah. The word came out fierce. I'm wearing the dress. And the next one. And every fucking dress I own until these clothes feel normal instead of political statement. Because that's my boundary—I get to decide what makes me feel like myself, and nobody else gets a vote.

That's right, Mom. Miguel's smile was warm. You wear whatever makes you feel at home in your skin.

Keira's hand shifted closer to mine on the bar, not touching but present. That was her boundary—affection expressed through proximity and words, not public display. And I respected that, needed that, understood that her love didn't require performance to be real.

I think I need to set boundaries with Sara. Marcus spoke slowly, working through it. Tell her that my bisexuality isn't up for debate or interpretation. That she can either accept me completely or we need to rethink the marriage. Because living with someone who thinks you're lying about your identity is its own kind of closet.

That's brave, cher. Remy nodded. Bubba made a sound of agreement, and when Remy glanced his way their eyes held for just a moment—nothing dramatic, just a beat of recognition that felt weighted with something unspoken.

I don't know if I can come out at church. Chris's voice was small. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I can come here. I can be honest here. And maybe that's enough for now.

It is enough. Ezra raised their glass. This is sovereign territory, remember? You get to be fully yourself here without apology. That's the whole fucking point.

The music shifted again—something I didn't recognize immediately, bass and drums creating foundation for truth. We sat there in comfortable silence, each of us processing our own boundaries, our own calculations of visibility and safety, our own negotiations with a world that wanted us small and silent and invisible.

Last call thoughts? Della emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands. Any final wisdom about boundaries before we call it a night?

I thought about the truck. About my freezing. About Keira's fury. About this space we'd built together—Miguel and Della's sanctuary, our collective refuge, the basement bar where plastic cups held more sacred meaning than any church I'd ever attended.

I think boundaries aren't walls. The words came slowly, bourbon-smooth and true. They're membranes. Semi-permeable, letting good things in while keeping poison out. They flex and adapt based on context, on safety, on what we can handle any given moment. Sometimes they're visible and rigid, sometimes they're invisible and flexible. But they're always ours to set, adjust, defend.

That's some philosophical shit, Mom. Remy grinned, and Bubba's deep chuckle rumbled through the basement like distant thunder—the kind of sound that made Remy's smile widen just slightly before he took another drag.

I think survival means drawing lines. I finished my bourbon. And redrawing them. And defending them. And knowing that sometimes the boundary is being visible, and sometimes it's protecting yourself, and both of those are valid. Both of those are me refusing to disappear.

She survived Depression, abuse, poverty, and she still made space for everyone who needed feeding. I thought about all the women who'd taught me strength. That was the boundary—if you were hungry, you ate. If you were hurting, you got comfort. If you threatened her people, you got thrown out on your ass. Simple. Clear. Defended.

That's what we're doing here. Miguel gestured around the bar. Creating space where people can be fully themselves. Drawing boundaries that say 'within these walls, you're safe, you're seen, you're family.' And anyone who violates that gets bounced by Renee.

I smiled thinking about Renee's protective instinct, how she'd nearly killed John during the attack, how she guarded this space like sacred ground because for many of us, it was.

The music faded to silence. Closing time approaching, the boundary between sanctuary and world growing thinner. Soon we'd climb those stairs, emerge into October night, return to lives requiring constant vigilance and calculation. But for now, we sat in basement bar painted sunset crimson, drinking bottom-shelf liquor from plastic cups, holding space for each other's wounds and triumphs and perpetual negotiations with visibility.

Same time Thursday? Ezra asked, already knowing the answer.

Same time Thursday. I stood, feeling bourbon warm in my veins and something like peace settling in my chest. Wearing whatever the fuck I want.

That's right, Mom. Della's voice followed me toward the stairs. You wear that dress like armor.

Keira rose beside me, her presence solid and unwavering. We climbed toward street level together, toward our car and our home and our life that required boundaries to survive. Behind us, the Sanctuary held space for next week's wounds, next week's triumphs, next week's stories about surviving another seven days visibly queer in world that wanted us invisible.

The dress still felt right. The bourbon still burned true. And tomorrow I'd wake up and calculate visibility versus safety all over again, because that's what it meant to survive while trans. You set boundaries situation by situation, moment by moment, protecting yourself however you could while refusing to disappear completely.

That asshole in the truck didn't get to erase me. He just reminded me why boundaries mattered—not to hide myself, but to preserve myself, to protect the core truth that no amount of violence could touch. That I was woman, trans, visible, loved, and here. Still fucking here.

"The self is not something ready-made, but something in continuous formation through choice of action." - John Dewey