THERE IS STILL TIME

He was actually one of the first in his grade to get a growth spurt, towering over his classmates for a few months, and with that additional height came relearning how to move his body. It was like he lost all his balance overnight, he remembered crying in frustration several times when he couldn’t get his body to move the way it did before he grew. His ballet teacher recommended a gymnastics class, and his mother was more than happy to accept.

Gymnastics was hard in a different way to ballet. The strength and flexibility he had learned over the years came in handy, but now he was expected to flip around and swing from bars and jump over things which all required him to develop new skills. It hurt. It was hard. He ached all over. But his balance was improving greatly. And he was apparently doing really well for a beginner in gymnastics as well.

His mom decided to keep him doing both.

As he got older, his days after school were spent either at the ballet studio or at the gymnastics club. His mom would fight with teachers, excusing missed homework, the same thing he got yelled at his dad about.

Dancing and gymnastics weren’t just something he was good at anymore. They were his future. His mom would do his hair in a neat bun, talking about the two of them moving to New York for a fancy ballet school, talks of being on stage every night, or travelling the world to the Olympics together. No matter what, the two of them together.

He started going to competitions for both ballet and Gymnastics. His mom was ecstatic when he first qualified, his dad and brothers far less so until they heard about a potential cash prize. And it was fun, he supposed, actually making money for the sports that were his whole life. It was nice to be with his mom, travelling around the state, and then the country.

In 2013 he went to a gymnastics competition on the West coast. He can’t remember much of it, just that he was 14, newly uncomfortable in his body (mom said all girls felt this way during puberty; she was wrong), feeling incredibly homesick for the open landscape his mom was enraptured with, and getting annoyed with two girls he was competing against.

He barely registered their names, too overwhelmed by the new environment to be in the mood to make friends. He knows they were from the area. He knows one of the was called Grace (“hey, you two have the same name!” Grace’s friend cheered at, like it was a rare occurance). He didn’t spend much time around them. Didnt spend much time around anyone really. His mom liked to stay plastered to his side, critiquing the other little girls techniques, how pretty they were, always muttering not to befriend the competition.

He came in second place in his main event. Second to that girl with a friend called Grace.

His mom didn’t speak to him much for the next few hours. Didn’t even sit next to him on the bus ride home. They spent the next few days both perfecting his routine and trying to get the other girls down as well - mom said knowing the competition is how to beat them.

When he got older, the disconnect between him and his body grew. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that he wasn’t a girl. And it was like the other girls in his classes could sense it too. He had never been one for friends, he was too busy for that, and mom said he was too good for them anyway. Things just, didnt feel the same anymore, not like when he was younger and everyone felt different. There was something that made him objectively different and that was terrifying.

He thinks that’s where the disconnect began. Ballet stopped being something he loved but a performance, just like everything else. Dancing used to feel freeing, but now he was just hyper aware of how wrong his body was and how dangerous that could be; his family went to church every Sunday, heard every vitriolic sermon, he knew this wasn’t a safe place for any kind of slip up.

This is where his escape plan began, if he truly thought about it. He started staying up late on school work, spoke to his coach and guidance counsellor about scholarships. He talked to his mom about it first, emphasising how good of an opportunity it would be for his career, to get a sports scholarship. She was easy to win over.

His dad and brothers not so much.

He thinks that’s the first time any of them hit him since he was 13.

He had to hide his pointe shoes and leotards at the studio for months after because his brothers kept destroying the ones they could find (they were happy to take their mom hitting them over the head, screaming about how much they cost. Their dad was more than happy to watch them wreck his things)

It didn’t matter what they wanted though, because he got the scholarship.

Him and his mom made the journey to college alone, car packed full of old several old awards his mom insisted on him bringing (“to show how talented you are”)

He tried to keep up with ballet those first few months, tried to find the spark again, but it was hard to do with gymnastics and class work, not to mention the cost of being in a dance club and buying shoes, so he had give it up. He told himself it wasn’t forever, he just had to find balance. He told his mom the same. She didn’t speak to him for nearly a month anyway.

She called him again when he won a competition, going on and on about how proud she was, and how he should call more (never mind that no one picked up when he had the past few months)

Being busy competing on such a high level and being in college gave him a convenient excuse not to come home as well. Let him stay away, give him a safe space to think. He was glad his mom didn’t know how to work FaceTime, it meant he could cut his hair short, short enough that if he went home he’d probably be called a dyke. Told his mom that the competitions didn’t record the competitions and that it was too far for her to travel out, which always caused a fight.

His mom was the only family member he stayed in contact with during his undergrad, at least until COVID hit the US near the end of his third year.

Gymnastics came to an abrupt halt, and, by dragging his feet at the thought of living with his family again, he was stuck on campus. His mom made several valiant efforts to guilt him into coming home, none of which worked.

During this time he focussed on his work, of course, but also himself. Realised he was at the point in his life where denial wasn’t going to work for much longer, booked an online appointment with one of the college therapists, and began the long road to coming out. She was a massive help, offered to help with referrals in the future if he wanted to get gender affirming care, helped him unpack some things he’d been repressing since he was 12.

And, much like ballet had, gymnastics seemed to disappear from his mind completely.

Covid was a convenient excuse to quit altogether. The weird feelings - the dysphoria - he felt with ballet, he also felt with gymnastics, and he was nearly graduating, he could last the next year without the scholarship.

His mom formerly cut him off when he told her about quitting.

It didn’t matter. He managed to graduate, biological sciences major with a theology minor - he never told his family he switched them around.

The logic when first applying was to have theology as a major, because what harm could come from learning more about God, and biological sciences as a potential fallback back plan, so he could go on to study physical therapy or sports science in case he had an injury or something.

That’s what he agreed on with his parents anyway. But they didn’t want him in their life anymore, so he could do what he wanted. And what he wanted was med school.

He doesn’t know when that dream started. When fantasies of spotlights became dreams of bright white hospital lights. Maybe it happened when he started receiving gender affirming care, at the first appointment with the endocrinologist who was so warm and kind with him. Maybe it was the doctor who sat down with him in the hospital when his uncle died. Maybe it was Covid in general, hearing the stories of front line workers.

It doesn’t matter where it began, not really, because this is where he is now.

The first few years of medical school were hard, of course it was, but he was managing. Ish.

Inflation was crazy, and he wasn’t competing anymore, so that was one less income stream. He tried to access the fund set up since he was a kid, where the prize money was set to go until he needed it, but when he got it, I over half was missing.

He transferred what was left, tried and failed to close the account. Dodged many angry phone calls from his family, ended up blocking them.

After he saw a familiar car sitting outside his accommodation a few too many times, he reported it to campus security, and his family were officially banned from campus, and he had the recommendation of getting a restraining order if this continued.

Dennis didn’t think it was necessary, he’d changed so much since they last saw him, no one recognised him.

He reached out to a friend in Nebraska, one of the few he had, got him to break into the house and get as much of his things out of there as possible. Luckily he wasn’t caught, Dennis didn’t want to have blood on his hands.

Money continued to get tighter, and soon Dennis was selling his belongings - trophies, medals and old costumes to begin with, then his car, some clothes, his crockery. By the beginning of his third year at med school he was officially homeless.

He got by as much as he could, keeping the bare essentials, crashing in shelters when his schedule allowed him to get there in time, in one of the homeless encampments when it didn’t. He stopped taking T - couldn’t afford it anymore - and it didn’t change anything about how he looked, but it made him feel like shit. It felt like he was taking steps back, or just slipping away from who he had become over the years. There were a few times he nearly caved and spent the little money he had on buying T illegally instead of being responsible and buying food.

It’s whatever. He did it, he got through MS3. He found a place to live (“place” was generous, but the eighth floor had a roof so it counted) He was beginning his final year, and then he could be an intern and finally be making money, finally be able to start paying off his debts, finally get a proper roof over his head.

His first shift in the Pitt was a shit show, kinda ironic considering shit was the thing he didn’t get covered with. But he did it. He made it through the mass casualty event, managed to get himself some sandwiches - a major win, and now he could relax.

Until Trinity Santos scared the absolute shit out of him.

He nearly threw up from stress when she was there. When she connected the dots. He couldn’t go back to living on the streets again, couldn’t manage it.

But then she gave an offer. Gave him a place to live.

He would never be able to thank her enough.

*

It was a few months into living with each other when he felt confident enough to get his friend to send over his things.

Trinity huffed in annoyance when they got back home and there were a couple boxes addressed to him in the hallway, but still raced upstairs, eager to sift through his belongings.

Most of the things he sent were photos, stuffed animals, some books, and old medals and trophies. He could feel the confusion radiating off of Trinity, but she didn’t ask, so he didn’t offer any answers.

She stayed silent until she found a silver medal, pulling it out, scanning the engraving with a furrowed brow, “How do you have this?”

“I, uh, I won it.”

“No, you didn’t. I was there, it was some stuck up girl with a bitch mom who-”

“Trinity.”

“Oh.” They stayed silent for a moment, just staring at each other, and then Trinity was pointing an accusing finger, the medal almost swinging into both their faces with the aggression, “You were such a bitch!”

“What! No I wasn’t!”

“Yes! Yes you were! You didn’t speak to anyone except your mom - god, such a mamas boy- and you wouldnt stop glaring at me after I beat you!”

“You were the one that beat me?! My mom made me learn your routine in a week because of this!” He snatched the medal out of her hand and waved it about briefly.

Trinity's only response was raised eyebrows for a moment. “Oh, so your mom is one of the obsessive types.”

Dennis just shrugged, a sudden wave of defensiveness sparking in his gut for the woman who hated him, "I don't know, I wouldn't call it that-"

"Okay, so that's a yes." Trinity snarked back, dropping the medal into the pile of shit they've already looked through, eager to return to snooping looking through his things, "Wait, how did she make you? You are not a bitch at all. Well, not anymore."

Dennis rolled his eyes, batting Trinity's hand away from a music box she was fiddling with - his mom had saved up for months to buy this from a local antique shop, desperate to get the perfect gift for her 'little ballerina' - "Can you please stop referring to me and my mom as bitches? Please?"

Trinity just returned the eyeroll, green eyes alight with mirth as her hands wrapped around the next object: an old pair of pointe shoes. Trinity snapped her gaze up to him, fast enough he wondered if she was gonna strain her eyes somehow; "You danced!?"

"Uh, yeah? Started ballet years before my mom even considered gymnastics. My mom wanted me to go pro, but I wanted to go to college, so I started doing gymnastics more seriously for a scholarship."

"Oh my God, I always wanted to do ballet but my mom said I couldn't do both. UGH! 'How does it feel! To live my dream!'"

He could only chuckle awkwardly as Trinity flopped against his outstretched legs, a faux injury to her soul knocking her off her ass. He could tell her about all the shit that came with it, how he almost didn't graduate high school because of the intensity of training, how his family never was financially stable because of him, because of his mom's obsession. How could he explain to her that her dream almost ruined him without making her feel shitty?

Explanations were over-rated anyway. Instead he went for the well-known method of inciting empathy in non-ballet dancers: "Do you want to see how fucked up my feet are?"