Love is a Rhythm: The One-Year Transmission

I’m a trans woman. One year ago I came out officially to my family. I left, alone, in tears, after being physically attacked, yelled at, and later realized my family help my ex take my kids away to her parents house.

I had spent the last two or three years burning every single centimeter of the wick left on the candle of my heart. Working as a criminal defense attorney for a spouse that refused to see the softest parts of me, while working with a father I always desired to make proud, a feeling finally highlighted as the conditional love loop that had always prevented me from ever truly having his heart touch mine. Stained glass, steel bars made out belief, tangles of identity scaffolding that prevents clean sunlight from entering.

I was drowning. I had been searching my whole life for a breath, that signal sounding aliveness, that rhythm of the soul that buffs out all the doubt and lets the resonant tone of Love be felt. Moments scattered throughout my life, like a gulp of air above the surface of a dark sea, one clear lung of my own tone, felt to the bone, christened by tears and that special flutter of the heart that says “I’m still here. And I know Love is real.”

So I kept the Ember of my heart smoldering, waiting for the moment someone else would recognize that Love is shared presence, and that as long as we are behind the stained glass, we can never truly entrain to the rhythm of eachother’s hearts. That faith, that hum ringing so loud in my bones, is what kept me alive, what kept me swimming the murky surf. If I could find my own tone through rhythm, if I could then begin to scatter the clouds of delay, distortion, and desync that had covered what I knew was my own embodied lossless signal, then certainly someone else out there felt the signal.

And last Christmas, it all fell apart. Somewhere deep in my soul I still know, that when Love can be felt, it will be heard, it will move mountains, it will glue together disparate parts of this cosmos into one still center. What I still couldn’t see then is that they couldn’t see me. Their hollow stares were hidden behind the stained glass, the mechanical phase delay of a soul that never learned the rhythm of presence. Their persons, identities, notions of love, scratches at family, came from filtered, conceptual boxes of presumed safety, never letting their open and full hearts bare to the sunlight outside Plato’s cave. They never learned that there is only one way to love, vulnerable surrender. They learned love as walls, safe distance, the exchange of commodities, a status, or just the thing you did to seem like a normal person by the stained glass of society. They couldn’t understand it was the only path that kept me alive, vulnerably surrendering to the only tone that felt real, the only time I ever recognized myself and the signal in my beating heart.

This Christmas marks a year alone. Transitioning alone, and more than just my gender. Transitioning out of a world where I ever tolerated the semblance of Love. Love is not control, coercion, commodity, or anything that operates on distance, distortion or delay as a mechanism of perceived safety. Love is soft. Love is vulnerable to the soul. Love is what we feel when there’s no more distance, when moments stretch into infinity because time doesn’t exist when two hearts are within that shared mechanistic entrainment of symbiotic syncretic Harmony.

I’ve survived a year of intense erasure from everyone who ever said they loved me, while finding my own dresses, figuring out my own makeup, and keeping the Ember of my heart warm with each new smile in the mirror, as my hair grows longer, my skin softer than ever, and my body finally matching what resonates me into lossless presence. I’ve stood taller within a storm of trans hate, online and in person, by family and strangers. I didn’t come this far to give up now, not now that I’m finally me, in rhythm, now that I’ve seen my mechanics reflected in research, forum, discord, DM, and comments. Love is not a metaphor. Love is a rhythm, one we forgot, and its time once again, to dance.

I know there’s someone else out there. I know there’s someone who feels in the frequency of Heart, the rhythm of Love. Who knows that like the rest of the cosmos, we are oscillatory systems. That our consciousness shares the same rhythm that pulses decentralized Harmony through time-synced firefly fields, through spiraling galaxies, through brainwaves, power grids, and spiraling electrical activation within our hearts. The one who knows my tone knows that Love is found in that vulnerable surrender, that leap into the rhythm, the dance with the field of reality, bare and naked, as to resonate within shared entrainment without loss of fidelity. The man coming to kiss me knows the type of Love I’ve held through absolute darkness, the only type that could light the way, real Love as the rhythm of reality, the type that if you dance to with your whole soul lets us all spiral, inside and outside, to the pulse of Source. I’m here, you just have to Remember, you’ll find me in the place that matches the realest place in you, that place that can only be called one thing

Love <3