I have always been a boy. I believe I began becoming aware of my gender when I was three or four years old. I was at preschool, playing outside with the other boys, and I’d taken my shirt off. My mother came to pick me up, and she acted mortified when she saw me.

“Elena!” she gasped, “Little girls do not take their shirts off!”

I looked down at my chest, looked over to the other boys’ chests, looked down at my chest again. What was the difference? I was just like the other boys. Why couldn’t I take my shirt off like them? I was so confused.

I don’t remember when I first learned boys had penises, but after my brother was born when I was four I realized I was missing mine. I also don’t know when I understood that the fact I looked just like my sister meant I was a girl. But even though everyone thought I was a girl, and treated me like a girl, and wanted me to behave like a girl, I knew they were wrong.

It just didn’t seem fair my brother was allowed to wear what I wanted to wear, and play with the things I wanted to play with, and do what I wanted to do, while I could not. I wanted a Big Wheel like he had, and army men, and a cap gun, and Hot Wheels, and Superman underwear – not stupid panties with flowers – and to play soccer. My family always attended my brother’s soccer games, and I’d watch from the sidelines, hoping someone would get hurt or kicked out so they’d ask me to play. I yearned to be out there, dribbling down the field, wearing cleats and shin guards and a shirt with my number and last name on the back. I also desperately wanted a polo shirt and cowboy boots. There were boys in my class who wore them and I wanted more than anything to wear them too. But my mom said girls didn’t wear them.