#identitymatters

Synarmogender is a genderfluid identity and a subset, or micro-label, that falls under Mutogender. In Synarmogender, one's gender changes while in awareness of another person’s gender preferences. A person who identifies as Synarmogender experiences shifts in their own gender presentation or identity based on the attractions or preferences of others, which may occur either through direct interaction or simply by being aware of the other person’s existence.

Surnames are more than just words, they are the threads that bind us to our culture

Check out our blog on Medium - The Influence of Surnames on Indian Cultural Identity and Belonging using the link - https://buff.ly/3PilLty

On the frigid morning of January 1, 2024, an ungodly hour past midnight, Elon Musk found himself knee-deep in the ultimate glitch. Picture this: London on the horizon, a pivotal conference at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m., and an unforeseen digestive apocalypse curtesy of some dodgy sushi. His plush ride turned into a war zone, and the richest, most powerful man on Earth discovered a new definition of rock bottom – he'd shitted himself.

The streets teemed with life, paparazzi sniffing for their next scoop. A crisis unfolded. Hotels, no refuge. Commerce, on pause. Jammed phone lines condemned him to the clutches of a dilemma only a laundromat could remedy. In the city's underbelly, he stumbled upon a humble establishment run by an Indian family. The scent of spices and incense masked the scent of Musk's misfortune, but a crowd of over twenty had already gathered.

Clad in a jacket disguising the wreckage below, Musk attempted to navigate the disapproving glares. Asserting his identity became the only way out. "I'm Elon Musk, and I need immediate assistance!" he proclaimed. The Indian proprietor, undeterred by celebrity, retorted, "I don't care who you are; you wait!" Musk cranked up the volume, "I'm Elon Musk, the CEO of Tesla and Twitter, and it's of vital importance that you…" the Indian, cut him off, "I'm Jagdish Patel, I don't give a bloody bloody who you are! You wait!" An air of tension thickened. Musk persisted, "It's crucial; I have a conference with the most important people on Earth about…" Patel interrupted again, "I don't bloody care! We're working since morning, and nobody on Earth cares about us, so we don't care about them!" Unyielding, Musk continued, "I can give you $1000 if you…" Patel shot back, "You can give me all the money in world, but you wait! This old woman is here for hours!" Anger boiling, Musk threatened, "You know!? I can pay somebody to kill you if you don't help me!" Patel, indifferent and powerful like Shiva in person, replied, "I don't care! I'm Indian; if you kill me, I reincarnate and kick your ass in another life!"

The dialogue hit a crescendo when two towering, Jamaican-accented men intervened, "Yo, yuh haffi wait like everybody else, or we mek yuh shit dat second time inna row!"

At the stroke of 5 o'clock, wearied by the relentless standoff, Patel apologized, "We're closing. Come back tomorrow, Sir." slamming the door on Elon Musk's face.

In the heart of London, the man who could launch rockets to space and redefine social media was defeated by a humble Indian and a touch of poop, a stark reminder that money can't buy everything.

Every migrant story carries pieces of identity, sacrifice, and resilience. 🌍 Discover a powerful reflection on representation, belonging, and the voices too often left unheard.

I exist in a community the world keeps trying to understand from the outside. There are theories, definitions, arguments, and opinions about people like me—but none of them prepare you for what it actually feels like to live this life.

Because this isn’t theoretical.

It’s embodied.

It’s daily.

There is no language that fully captures the experience of being misnamed, or of knowing who you are and still having to negotiate that truth every time you introduce yourself. There is no framework for the quiet calculation that happens before I enter a space—Will I be safe here? Will I be seen? Will I be erased?

People often assume that being trans or non-binary means being confused. But I’ve never been confused about who I am. What’s confusing is living in a world that asks for authenticity while punishing it. A world that tells me to be myself, but only if that self remains comfortable, legible, and non-disruptive.

Anxiety, for me, isn’t some abstract condition. It’s learned. It’s the result of paying attention. It’s knowing when to lower my voice, when to correct someone, when to let it go because I don’t have the energy to explain my existence for the hundredth time. It’s the tension that lives in my body long after the conversation ends.

I live in the in-between.

Between how I see myself and how I’m perceived.

Between visibility and vulnerability.

Between the relief of being known and the fear of being known too much.

Dysphoria doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it shows up as absence—like not recognizing yourself in reflections, photos, or memories. And sometimes what hurts isn’t dysphoria at all, but exhaustion. Exhaustion from correcting pronouns. From answering invasive questions disguised as curiosity. From feeling like my life is a concept people feel entitled to debate.

I am tired of being almost understood.

Tired of being reduced to identity before humanity.

Tired of being asked to educate while my own experiences are questioned.

And still, I keep living.

I find joy where I can—often in small, quiet ways. In chosen names. In chosen people. In moments where I don’t have to explain myself at all. I’ve learned to build language when none was given to me, and to hold softness alongside resilience because both are necessary to survive.

My life is not a theory.

My body is not a question.

My identity is not a phase waiting to pass.

You don’t need to fully understand me to respect me. You don’t need to feel what I feel to believe me. But please don’t claim comprehension if you’ve never had to learn how to exist while being seen and erased at the same time.