Santiago, Chile → Barcelona · Poble-sec

Jan 9, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and warm. I made coffee, the aroma anchoring me. cycled to the clinic today, my heart racing a little. the waiting room was full, people shifting in their seats, all of us tethered to our own journeys. I spotted a trans man with a fresh haircut, and for a moment, I recalled that feeling of liberation in small changes.

   the appointment was routine, but I feel the weight of it all—hormones, paperwork, the endless back and forth. I talked to the doctor about my progress. she smiled at me, a rare warmth in this bureaucratic labyrinth. I noted the dosage changes in my journal later, a reminder of the body's persistence.

   carla and I strolled through Poble-sec in the evening; the streets were quieter. we shared a few jokes, her laughter a melody that soothed my day. we paused at a small park, the trees casting long shadows. home feels layered, a mix of languages and histories, each corner of our lives entangled.

   the sun dipped low, the evening chill creeping in, signaling another day gone. I felt hopeful amidst the clouds. tomorrow brings more of this work, but tonight, I breathe a little easier.

Jan 30, 2024

1. Diary

   the cold morning air nipped at my cheeks as i stepped out for my bike ride to the clinic. the streets were quiet, a few early risers and the soft rustle of leaves underfoot. i felt a little anxious, as always, yet eager for the appointment. across the block, a stray dog barked, breaking the stillness—reminded me that life goes on, in all its forms.

   i got there, checked in. the woman at the reception had a kind smile. we exchanged a few words about the weather (always a safe topic). as i waited, i listened to the murmur of voices around me. some patients were chatting softly, others lost in their own thoughts, probably like me.

   once inside, the doctor was thorough, as always, asking about my medications and progress. i told her about the changes, how it feels to finally begin to inhabit my body. i shared the small joys—like hearing my mother try out my name more confidently during our voice notes (mama is getting there).

   afterward, i cycled to Poble-sec and met carla at our favorite café. we sat outside, sipping on hot chocolate, the sun emerging finally from behind the clouds. i caught a glimpse of a little girl playing with her dog—i couldn't help but smile at the innocence of it.

   on the way back, the chill settled into the evening. the sky turned a muted gray, fading into darkness. tomorrow’s another day, another cycle of appointments and words to write.

Feb 14, 2024

1. Diary

   the sky was an ashy gray this morning, heavy with the promise of rain. i walked to the clinic in a thick coat, the weight of it comforting against the chill. it’s strange how familiar the journey has become, even with the nerves still fluttering in my stomach. the waiting room was buzzing today—more than usual. faces shifting, eyes darting. i overheard snippets of anxious conversations. one woman was talking about her second round of hormones, her voice a mix of excitement and fear.

   i thought about my own journey, how the body feels like a puzzle sometimes. checked in, tracked my medications, tried to keep my breathing steady. the doctor was kind, asked if the adjustments were working. i nodded, even though the truth is it’s still a process. i find myself whispering affirmations in the mirror at home, just to ground myself.

   after, i met carla for lunch at that little café by the plaça. she looked radiant, her laughter lighting up the cloudy day. we talked about her upcoming family visit. i felt a flicker of envy—what would it be like to see my mother so freely? in the evening, we strolled through the damp streets of poble-sec, the air sharp as it brushed against my skin. the rain finally fell, tiny droplets mingling with our laughter, a reminder that even gray days can hold a kind of warmth.

Mar 12, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun was bright today, a sharp contrast to the heavy clouds of yesterday. i took a long walk through Poble-sec, just me and the feeling of being alive. the air felt electric, full of possibility. saw a few familiar faces at the café, and there was this warmth in their smiles, a reminder of how i’m finding my place here.

   at the clinic, the waiting room was bustling, but i felt a calmness. the doctor adjusted my medications, and we talked about how i’ve been feeling. it’s strange to share so openly, but liberating too. sometimes, i glance at the other patients and wonder about their stories, their journeys. we are all navigating this maze together, seeking some sort of peace.

   later, i sent a voice note to my mother. she’s slowly getting used to my name, and i can hear the effort in her voice when she tries. it’s tender, this exchange, even from afar. i wish she could be here to see the city, to experience its vibrant life, but i know she’s proud of me.

   afterward, i worked on some articles for the upcoming issue—a blend of local stories and reflections on what home means now. it’s a complicated question, but i’m finding pieces of an answer.

   as the evening rolled in, the sky turned a soft orange, and the city settled into that familiar rhythm, like a gentle sigh. it feels like endings and beginnings all at once.

Mar 13, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning air was crisp and clear, a welcome change from the weight of the last few days. i decided to tackle the press-card paperwork today, hoping to finally make some progress. stared at the forms, each checkbox a little reminder of how strange this new system feels. i switched between languages, my fingers hovering over terms i’ve learned but still fumbled with—“acreditació,” “justificació.” it’s funny how bureaucracies are universal yet so distinctly frustrating.

   carla came by with a coffee, her usual warmth breaking through my frustration. she asked something in catalan about my plans, and for the first time, i responded mostly in her language. the smile on her face when i got it right lit up the room. it felt good to share that moment.

   after battling the forms, i went for a walk in the afternoon sun, the streets of Poble-sec buzzing softly. i passed a few familiar faces, their greetings a gentle reminder that i’m carving out a place here. the sun was bright, but not too hot—just warm enough to feel good on my skin. the sky was a deep blue, felt like a fresh start.

   sat in the park for a while, watching the world go by. a couple of kids were laughing nearby, their joy spilling over like the blossoms of the trees. i thought about my mother, her voice notes growing more confident with my new name. it’s a process, but i can feel her embracing it.

   as the evening came in, the sky shifted to hues of pink and orange, signaling the end of another day. i felt a flicker of hope; things are changing, slowly but surely.

Mar 21, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun broke through this morning, casting a soft glow in the apartment. carla made her espresso, and the scent filled the space, warm and familiar. we sat on the balcony, her laughter mingling with the sounds of the street below. it's odd how at home i feel here in these little moments, yet the shadows of my past cling to me like the chill from last week’s rain.

   this afternoon, i finally tackled the paperwork for my press card again. the forms stared back at me, an intimidating wall of bureaucratic jargon. i took breaks, voice noting my frustrations to my mother. she’s started using my name, but sometimes it slips—an old habit. i can hear her uncertainty and love wrapped up in every syllable. there’s something beautiful about it, even when it stings.

   afterward, i met up with some folks from the Latin American queer writers' group. their words flowed like poetry, a testament to our shared histories. we brainstormed for a collective project—something to lift our voices together. a spark of hope ignited, reminding me why i love journalism in this vibrant city.

   as the day closed, the sky shifted from golden to deep indigo. a gentle breeze brushed past me on my walk back, and for a moment, i felt light as a feather. perhaps home is a tapestry woven from the past and present, threads of laughter, struggle, and love.

Mar 25, 2024

1. Diary

   the sky was a deep azure today, a rare burst of clarity. took a walk through Poble-sec, the streets buzzing with life. saw a grandmother with her grandchild, the kid laughing as they chased a pigeon. made me think of my mom. she’s been using my name more often in our voice notes, a tiny revolution.

   carla was busy this afternoon, so i dove into the press-card paperwork again. the bureaucratic maze overwhelms me sometimes. i’m still not sure if my new life here will feel as solid as it does in the moment. i scribbled a note to myself: “keep pushing, you belong here.”

   wrote a bit for the Latin American queer writers' group. it helps to share, to find those connections in words. they’re like threads weaving through the uncertainty. the sun set beautifully; the orange and pink hues fading into twilight felt like a promise. i ended my day listening to a trans poet read about transformation. it resonated tonight.

May 1, 2024

1. Diary

   the evening air in poble-sec is thick with the promise of summer. i took a long walk today, allowing the familiar corners to wrap around me like an embrace. the city feels different now, changing in tandem with me.

   carla and i spent the morning wrestling with my paperwork again. her gentle teasing about my hopelessness with bureaucracy is a balm. i almost laughed when she mispronounced ‘acreditación’ in her cute catalan accent.

   later, i sent out a voice note to my mother, trying to catch her up on everything. each time i say 'mireya,' her hesitance hangs in the air like unshed tears. she’s getting there—it’s just slow, like a stubborn winter thaw.

   the public-health clinic called today; they scheduled my next appointment. i feel the familiar mix of hope and anxiety. my body is changing, and with it, so too is my understanding of what 'home' means.

   the sun dipped low as i returned, casting a golden glow over the terrace. it felt like a blessing. the warmth on my skin a reminder that there’s still light ahead, even amid the weight of waiting.

May 3, 2024

1. Diary

   the rain came down hard this morning, a grey curtain draping over the city. it matched my mood, heavy and lingering. i spent the morning in a haze, scrolling through my messages. our WhatsApp group buzzes with plans for the upcoming queer literary festival, but a part of me feels distant. it’s not that i don’t want to be involved, but this body—sometimes it feels like a stranger.

   carla made me lunch, a simple plate of patatas bravas that she swears are better than any i’d find in a bar. i don’t know about that, but she was right about needing fuel for the day ahead. i tried to engage while she spoke about her ideas for her next article, her voice a steady balm against the noise in my head.

   in the afternoon, i headed to the public-health clinic for my check-up. it was swamped, the waiting room a mix of anxious faces. i sat with my notebook, jotting down thoughts about the stories i want to tell—stories of bodies, transitions, and the systems that both support and constrain us. the nurse called my name, and just like that, i was back in the cycle of appointments, paperwork, and the uncomfortable questions of identity.

   on the way home, the clouds finally broke, and the sun peeked through, casting a soft light across the streets. i let the warmth hit my face, feeling a flicker of hope. even rain can’t wash away my desire to be seen, to find my place in this world.

May 14, 2024

1. Diary

   the sky opened up today, a gentle rain that felt almost like a balm. i stayed inside for most of it, working through the press-card paperwork again. it feels like every time i think i’m close, there’s another form to fill, another meeting to attend. the weight of it all is suffocating sometimes, like trying to swim in a pool full of molasses.

   after a few hours of that, i decided to step outside. the streets of poble-sec were slick, reflecting the soft glow of streetlamps. i walked without a destination, just letting the rhythm of my footsteps guide me. a group of teenagers passed, laughing, their joy somehow infectious. i found myself smiling despite the frustrations of the day.

   carla texted me, asking if i wanted to join her for dinner with her family this weekend. a mix of anxiety and excitement washed over me. i don’t know how they’ll respond to me, my name, my body. i hope they’re as welcoming as they’ve seemed.

   as i sit here now, the sound of rain tapping against the window, i can’t help but feel a flicker of hope. maybe tomorrow will bring clarity. or at least, a little less bureaucracy.

May 15, 2024

1. Diary

   the evening air has shifted into something warmer, the light lingers longer than it did a few weeks ago. carla and i went for a walk along the waterfront, watching the sun dip behind the horizon. the water sparkled, and for a moment, i felt a sense of peace wash over me.

   she laughed at a group of kids playing soccer nearby, their shouts echoing against the buildings. i can’t help but feel a little envious of their carefree joy. sometimes i wonder if i’ll ever feel that lightness again.

   back home, i listened to a voice note from my mother. she’s finally getting used to the new name. her soft voice, still hesitant but filled with love. it makes me smile, makes this whole transition feel a little more real.

   the press-card paperwork still looms over me. i can’t shake the anxiety that comes with it—what if it doesn’t go through? will i be able to navigate this journalism world? but for now, the warmth of the evening wraps around me, and i’ll take solace in that.

May 31, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun was bright today, almost too much. i walked to the clinic this morning, feeling the heat on my skin, a reminder that summer is creeping in. the public health center was packed, of course. the usual faces—they all seem like old friends now. checked in for my hormone therapy. the nurse was kind, asked about my progress. it’s strange, sharing this part of myself so openly, but it felt… good, too.

   later, i met carla for lunch at that little café on the corner. she had that gorgeous shade of pink on her lips—made me feel bold. we talked about her family, how they’re slowly coming around. she mentioned her sister's wedding plans, a summer affair. i smiled, but my heart twinged at the thought of my own family back in santiago. mom is still working on my name, her voice notes so sweet and tentative.

   this evening, we strolled through the streets of poble-sec, the warmth wrapping around us like a familiar embrace. carla held my hand, and i wondered about all the ways our lives are threading together. it feels like a patchwork, still loose at the edges, but somehow more secure than it has in a long time. the night is coming, the air cooler now, a soft reminder of change.

Jun 18, 2024

1. Diary

   the heat settled heavily over the city today, almost tangible. i walked to the clinic, again. the air thick with a mix of warmth and the scent of blooming jasmine. sat in the waiting room, flipping through the latest issue of a queer literary magazine. there was a poem by a trans writer that caught me—each line a delicate exploration of transformation. i wished i could scribble my thoughts in the margins, but instead, i just tucked the magazine under my arm to ponder later.

   my appointment was quick but meaningful. dr. alvarez discussed my next steps with the usual careful precision, reassuring me about the upcoming adjustments to my hormone therapy. i felt lighter afterward. the bureaucracies of my body seem daunting, yet today they felt like a dance, a rhythm i’m starting to understand.

   carla joined me afterward. we wandered through the narrow streets of poble-sec, stopping at a little café where i ordered a cortado, the barista smiling as he handed it over. she laughed at my attempt to order in catalan; “ja ho faràs millor la propera vegada,” she said, with that encouraging twinkle in her eyes. it's moments like these that stitch my days together.

   the evening unfolded softly. we returned home, and i sent a voice note to my mom, her new name rolling off my tongue more fluidly now. she still hesitates, but each time feels like a step forward. summer creeps on, bringing with it the promise of something new. the heat outside feels more like an embrace than a weight.

Jun 21, 2024

1. Diary

   the heat has become a constant companion. today, i walked to the clinic again, feeling sticky by the time i arrived. the waiting room was busy—too noisy. a few voices blended into a sort of murmur, but i focused on my phone, sending a voice note to my mother. “mami, how’s the weather there? are you using the name yet?” she hesitated on the last call. small progress, but still progress.

   after the appointment, i took a slow route back. passed by the café where carla and i had our first date. the barista still remembers my order. the afternoon light felt softer, almost comforting. i listened to a podcast about trans identities in the media, making notes for a piece i'm working on. the comparison with the journalism scenes in chile and spain is striking—here, there’s a different openness, a flicker of hope.

   as evening fell, i could see the sky turning shades of pink and orange. sat by the balcony with carla, watching the city wind down. it’s strange how home can shift like this. the warmth of her hand in mine, almost grounding. maybe warmth is home after all.

Jul 3, 2024

1. Diary

   the heat is relentless today, like a blanket that won’t let go. i walked to the clinic, my skin slick with sweat. the streets of poble-sec feel oddly still, as if the entire city is holding its breath.

   sat in the waiting room, the same faces, the same conversations—people discussing their transitions, their struggles, their small victories. it feels comforting yet so heavy, the weight of shared experience pressing down. i scribbled notes for a piece i’m working on, thinking about the nuances of gender-affirming healthcare here, how it contrasts with the precariousness back home in chile.

   carla texted me a funny meme from her work, and it made me smile, reminded me of the little joys that slice through the heat. she’s been so supportive, always checking in. our walks in the evening, as the sun dips low, are a balm.

   my mother used my name today, sort of—mispronounced it still, but it felt like a step. we’re getting there, slow but steady. i’m tracking everything, the medications, the appointments, the little changes.

   the sun is setting now, casting long shadows on the pavement. another day fading away, but there’s something promising in the air, like summer might hold secrets yet to be uncovered.

Aug 2, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun poured down again today, relentless. my skin felt like a second layer, heavy and warm. walking to the clinic, the usual corner store was closed, a sign taped to the door, something about vacation. the path felt longer, the air thick with jasmine and the scent of asphalt melting.

   sat in the waiting room, the sounds of the city muffled outside. an older woman next to me sneezed, and we exchanged a glance—an understanding, perhaps, of the discomfort we all shared. i flipped through a book of poetry, a collection of trans voices, trying to find comfort in their words.

   carla texted me while i waited, a cute meme about cats that made me smile. she’s been trying to learn some Spanish jokes, but they don’t always land. i love that about her, the effort to connect. i can hear my mother’s voice in my head, working through my name again. i never tire of it, the way she fumbles, the way it feels like a soft affirmation.

   the appointment was straightforward; more paperwork. tomorrow i’ll go back to the clinic for the next step. these bureaucracies—they shape my body as much as any hormone. i think of the press-card paperwork still looming over me, the weight of it all.

   the evening walks with carla are what i look forward to most—just wandering the neighborhood, the heat fading, and the lights flickering on. maybe we’ll grab some gelato later. the night will bring a breath of coolness, at least for a moment.

Aug 28, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun is relentless today, a furnace hanging over the city. i walked to the clinic again, each step sticking to the pavement, my skin a canvas of sweat. the waiting room buzzed—voices overlapping, impatience simmering. the nurse at the front desk remembered me. "another round of hormones?" she asked, her tone light but professional. i nodded, a small smile curling my lips. these visits are becoming familiar, almost routine.

   after the appointment, i wandered through poble-sec, the heat wrapping around me, a familiar embrace. i stopped by the little café on the corner. they had that iced matcha i love, and it felt like a small indulgence on a day like this. sip, breathe, feel the world outside for a moment. i might start bringing my notebook, jot down thoughts or fragments of poetry as the world swirls around me.

   the evenings are still lovely, though. carla and i will walk later. she likes the way the light hits the balconies, the slight chill that comes as the sun dips. i wonder how long we can stay in this moment, how many more summers will feel like this before everything shifts again.

   the heat, the sticky skin, the conversations, all a reminder of the body and its bureaucracies—the waiting, the wanting, the becoming.

Aug 31, 2024

1. Diary

   the heat could drown a person. it's been unyielding this week, even the evenings barely cool. today i found myself at the clinic again; a familiar weight—appointments are becoming too routine. my body, a constant reminder of the transition, feels like it’s turning into a landscape of its own. each visit, another step, another adjustment.

   the waiting room was full, people speaking in hushed tones. i tried to listen, to catch snippets of their stories, but the noise just blended into a hum. i made a voice note for my mother on my way home, reminding her to keep practicing my name. she still stumbles, but every time she gets it right, it feels like a small victory.

   carla sent me a message about her family's plans for the weekend. the thought of joining them keeps me hopeful. i miss getting lost in our conversations, the way her laughter dances through the air.

   as i walked back through poble-sec, the streets seemed almost magical in the dusky light. the heat lingered, wrapping around me like a heavy shawl, but the shadows whispered of change.

Sep 3, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun still holds the city in its grip. the heat drapes over everything, thick and oppressive. my body feels heavier with every step toward the clinic. the clinic—the same worn tiles, the same faces. today, the waiting room buzzed with a mix of anxiety and hope. i overheard a woman talking softly about her name, how it felt like freedom tangled in the syllables. i sent her a small smile; the warmth in that space can be infectious.

   later, while walking back, i stopped by a café, the allure of a cool drink too tempting. ordered a café con leche. the barista's smile was bright, even in this heat. had a moment of clarity watching the world pass by—there’s something grounding in just being here, in this moment, even as the city pulses with heat.

   carla messaged me about dinner plans. she suggested cooking together, something simple. i can almost taste the fresh tomato and basil already. our evenings are sacred now, woven with laughter and shared smiles, a flicker of home between us.

   i think of my mother, her voice notes still echoing in my mind. i’m learning to navigate this new name alongside her. she’s trying, slowly, and that means everything. the body and its bureaucracies, the heart and its connections—everything is a dance of sorts, isn't it?

   the sun starts to dip. a slight coolness creeps in, whispering promises of a gentler evening.

Sep 5, 2024

1. Diary

   another blistering day. the sun doesn't relent, a glaring spotlight. i stepped out for my appointment at the clinic again. the pavement felt like it was smoldering, each step a reminder of this weight—my body and the heat. the waiting room was packed, people shifting in their seats, trying to find comfort in discomfort. i saw a familiar face—Esteban, a trans guy from that group chat we share. we exchanged nods, a silent solidarity amidst the noise.

   today, i talked about dosage adjustments. more estrogen. the doctor talked through the changes like it was just another Tuesday, but my heart raced. the paperwork—always paperwork—never feels less daunting. i have to remind myself that this is progress.

   after the appointment, i walked through Poble-sec, the streets shimmering with that stubborn heat. grabbed a gelato, took a moment, let the sweetness wash over me. called my mom, her voice wobbly but warm. she’s slowly using my name—i think she’s practicing.

   evening now, the heat lingers but the shadows stretch long. i wonder about what home means these days—Barcelona feels both foreign and familiar. tomorrow is another day in this sun, but at least there's always the promise of a cooler breeze eventually.

Sep 6, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun is relentless, a brutal force. i walked to the clinic again today, each step a reminder of this weight i carry. the heat wraps around me like a heavy blanket, suffocating. inside, the air conditioning hums—a lifeline.

   today, they adjusted my medication. small changes, but they feel monumental. my body, this ongoing conversation. i’m grateful for the care, but each appointment deepens that familiar anxiety. will this work? will it help?

   carla sent me a voice note earlier, a sweet distraction. she’s planning a weekend getaway to the coast—“it’ll be cooler there, plus fresh seafood!” she said. the thought of being by the water sounds heavenly, but part of me hesitates. will i feel like me when we’re away?

   as i walked home, the streets of poble-sec buzzed with life, yet it felt distant. my mind was elsewhere. thinking about my mother too—she seems to be slowly using my new name in our calls. a flicker of warmth, a glimpse of home.

   the evening air finally holds a hint of coolness. the day fades, slipping into twilight. there’s always the promise of another tomorrow, even through this heat.

Sep 14, 2024

1. Diary

   the heat continues its stubborn hold, a relentless presence. today, each step to the clinic felt like a negotiation with my body, heavy and slow. the pavement shimmered, an illusion of coolness beneath the oppressive weight of the sun.

   i met an old friend at the café near the clinic—sofa, a fellow writer from the WhatsApp group. over iced coffees, we exchanged stories about navigating the terrain of journalism here. she mentioned how much more supportive the community feels, even if the bureaucracy is still a minefield.

   back at the clinic, the waiting room was packed. i caught snippets of conversations, voices twinkling with hope and anxiety. i turned my phone to record a voice note for my mother, practicing my name with the new pronunciation. her laughter burst through the speaker, a spark of warmth amid the clinical chill.

   on the way home, i wandered through the streets of poble-sec. the evening light softened the sharp edges of the day, cradling the buildings in a golden glow. a couple was dancing in the plaza, and for a moment, i felt the weight lift, just a flicker of freedom.

   later, the night settled in, blanketing everything. i think of how to hold my mother in this new life, how to weave our stories together. the heat fades, leaving only the stars.

Oct 12, 2024

1. Diary

   another scorching day, the sun an unyielding presence. the pavement radiates heat, each step to the clinic feels like a small rebellion against the weight of it all. today, the waiting room hummed with a mix of nervous chatter and the low drone of the air conditioning—thankfully, a reprieve from the outside.

   i saw Dr. Ruiz for my check-up. they asked about how the hormone therapy is adjusting, and i felt the familiar flutter of both anticipation and anxiety. my body, a map of changes and unfamiliar sensations. “it takes time,” they reminded me, smiling.

   after the appointment, i met up with carla at the little café by our place. her laughter always feels like a balm, like the relief of shade under a tree in this relentless sun. we talked about her family—her mother’s plans for the holiday season, their traditions. she wants to introduce me properly this year, and my heart swells and sinks all at once.

   as we walked back through the narrow streets of poble-sec, the evening light softened everything, turned it golden. home feels like a strange word right now—more of an idea than a place. but with carla, sometimes it becomes tangible, even if just for a moment.

   the night is still and warm, almost too quiet. the heat seems to linger, a reminder of the day’s stubborn embrace.

Oct 15, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun, still relentless. today, i woke early, the light creeping into the room like an unwelcome guest. carla had already left for her shift. i lingered over coffee, scrolling through the messages in the whatsapp group—my fellow writers sharing snippets of their work, some poetry full of heart and defiance. it felt good to be part of that, to see voices rise above the noise.

   the clinic visit was scheduled for late morning, but it felt like a lifetime away. i traced my fingers over the notes i’ve been keeping about my body, about how the changes sometimes feel monumental, sometimes almost invisible. my breathing was easier today, despite the heat. maybe the air was only a hint cooler. i wore a light dress, the fabric flowing around me, a small act of embracing what’s shifting within.

   after the appointment, i took a longer route home through the winding streets of poble-sec. the evening was starting to pulse with life. i passed a small plaza where children were playing, their laughter mixing with the chatter of families. there’s something about that sound that tugs at me, makes me think of home. my mother trying to get used to my name, the way it tastes on her tongue.

   as the day closed, i sat on the balcony. the sky was bruising into shades of orange and purple, almost like a canvas where i could project my hopes. tomorrow, another day in this balancing act of becoming, and just maybe, the sun will take a breath.

Oct 17, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun still shines, blinding and fierce. my walk to the clinic was a dance of avoidance, sidestepping melted patches on the pavement, where heat waves distort reality. it’s a strange waltz, this relationship with my body; each step reminding me of the weight of expectation, the resistance in my joints like a whisper of defiance.

   at the clinic, the waiting room buzzed with the quiet tension of shared stories. a girl with a fresh pixie cut sat across from me, fiddling with her bracelet, maybe anxious or excited? i wanted to reach out, to say something, but the words stuck in my throat. the air felt thick, heavy with unspoken hopes.

   i noticed the doctor had a new pin on her white coat—a small rainbow flag. felt like a small victory in the bureaucratic ballet we all navigate. while she checked my hormone levels, i reminded myself to breathe, to let my body speak; it’s done so much for me.

   carla sent me a voice note later, her laugh a bright spot in my afternoon. she’s planning a dinner with her family this weekend. i should probably tell them about the name change before we sit down over paella, but part of me wants to hold onto the small, tender spaces where my identity still finds room to blossom.

   evening now, and poble-sec is catching its breath. the sun sets like an artist letting go of a brushstroke, painting the sky in gradients of orange and purple. i’m grateful for these moments, where all the pieces of my world feel a bit lighter, a bit more like home.

Oct 22, 2024

1. Diary

   the heat lingers, a stubborn reminder that autumn isn’t quite ready to claim the days. i ventured out to the clinic this morning, wearing the lightest dress i could find. each step feels weighed down by the sun, like walking through a dream where shadows cling thicker than usual.

   today was a bit different. met with dr. marta, who always manages to balance professionalism with a warmth that feels like home. we talked about the new regimen — the hormones, the side effects, how my body is responding. it’s a dance, this transition, and sometimes i feel like i’m stepping on my own toes.

   the other patients in the waiting room — a mix of stories, some eyes bright with hope, others clouded with uncertainty. it’s comforting, sharing this space with others who know this struggle. a young man next to me shared a poem about his journey. i can’t remember it word for word, but it felt like a lifeline.

   on my way back, i stopped for some pastries — a small indulgence, though they don’t quite taste like the ones back home. yet, every bite felt like a whisper of comfort.

   carla was waiting at the door when i returned, her smile a beacon against the fading light. we sat on the balcony, the air thick but bearable, a soft breeze brushing against our skin. she took my hand, and i felt a flicker of hope, despite the heat that wouldn’t relent. autumn can wait a little longer.

Nov 3, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun finally dimmed today, heavy clouds rolling in like a promise of change. after days of relentless heat, the autumn air felt like a long-awaited embrace. i met up with carla for lunch at our favorite café, the one with the tangled vines that wrap around the balconies. we shared a plate of pan con tomate, and i could see her laugh flicker as she poked fun at my attempts to order in catalan.

   we talked about her family—she’s been trying to convince them to visit us in barcelona this winter. it’s strange, navigating how much of my life to share with them, how to be fully me in a room where everyone may not see me as i am. she reminds me it’s not about them accepting me, but about us—about building our own family in this city.

   later, i walked to the clinic. the air was cooler, almost moody, and i thought about my next appointment. tracking these changes in my body has become a strange comfort—a ritual of sorts. i scribble notes in my phone, a mix of hopes and worries, a cycle of anticipation.

   on the way home, i spotted a tiny bookshop tucked between two larger stores, a little oasis. i went in and found a collection of poems from trans writers—i had to have it. the evening felt full with the promise of reading. rain began to fall softly as i reached our street, each drop a reminder that endings can be beautiful, too.

Nov 18, 2024

1. Diary

   the rain comes in soft whispers, weaving its way through the late afternoon. i stepped out for a walk, hoping to breathe in the fresh scent of wet earth. the pavement glistens under deep gray skies, a soothing balm after the unyielding sun.

   the clinic visit was routine today, a quick check on my hormones and progress. dr. ortega smiled, asked how i’m feeling. “good, just tired,” i said, the truth folding itself neatly into the polite exchange.

   afterwards, i stopped by the bakery near the clinic. the scent of freshly baked pan con chocolate reminded me of home. i bought a few, planning to share them with carla later. she’ll be waiting for me, probably tucked into her latest book, the cozy light spilling from the lamp in our living room.

   my mother called during the walk back. we stumbled through the usual conversation, her voice still adjusting to my name, but it felt lighter today, easier. i can feel her softening to it, piece by piece.

   the streets of poble-sec are quieter now, the rain pushing people inside, but there's something beautiful in the stillness. i watch the drops race down the window, and as much as i miss the warmth, this moment feels like a gentle reminder — change can be soft, too.

Dec 21, 2024

1. Diary

   the chill has finally settled in. this morning, a thick fog wrapped around the streets of poble-sec, blurring the edges of everything. i wore my wool coat for the first time, its weight comforting against the morning's bite.

   i spent the day at the gender-affirming clinic, where the steady rhythm of waiting rooms feels both familiar and heavy. today's appointment was straightforward—just a quick check-in on my hormone dosage. dr. simón was kind as always, and i left feeling a little lighter, like the fog had lifted.

   afterward, i wandered through the market, the stalls bursting with winter produce. even the oranges felt different—brighter, somehow, in the low light. i picked a few, imagining how their zest would warm our evening together.

   when i got home, carla was making a slow-cooked stew. the kitchen smelled good, like home. we chatted about her family plans for the holidays. feeling a little wistful, i mentioned how i wish my mother could be here to share in this warmth, but she’s adapting to my name and i’m grateful for that small victory.

   as the night crept in, we stepped out for a walk. the air crisp, our breaths mingling in the coolness. the streetlights cast a soft glow, like the world was wrapped in a tender embrace. the soft cadence of our footsteps felt grounding. it’s nice to have this, to feel a sense of belonging—even amidst the veils of winter.

Jan 1, 2025

1. Diary

   the new year brings a certain weight. the air is crisp today, the kind that makes every breath feel like a small victory. i stepped out for a walk, my wool coat snug against the cold. there’s a quietness in poble-sec, an almost reverent hush that blankets the streets.

   carla is still asleep, her warmth lingering in the sheets like a memory i’m reluctant to leave behind. we spent last night talking, our hopes for this year spilling into the dim light of our living room. i’m eager to dive into more writing, the essays swirling in my mind like confetti. but there’s still this lingering anxiety about the press-card paperwork, the bureaucratic knots that threaten to trip me up.

   i listened to a voice note from my mother earlier. she sounded happy. i can almost picture her smiling as she stumbles over my name, trying, always trying. it tugs at something deep inside me, a reminder of what i’m working towards here.

   the fog of the past months feels like it’s lifting. maybe it’s the chill in the air or the promise of possibility that a new year brings. i want to embrace this feeling, even if uncertainty still hovers. i’ll take the small victories, the little moments of warmth. today feels like a good start.

Jan 9, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun is trying to break through, casting a soft gold on the damp streets. i went to the clinic today for my follow-up. the nurse was kind, and we talked about the next steps. it feels strange, this constant monitoring of my body, but also necessary. she noted my medication changes, and i felt a flicker of relief.

   afterward, i walked over to the little café on carrers de Blai. i splurged on a slice of torta de Santiago. the sweetness was a small comfort. i could hear snippets of conversations around me, a mix of catalan and castellano, a reminder of the layers of connection here.

   i sent a voice note to my mother, her voice still adjusting to my name. it feels like a small battle every time, but i know she’s getting there. every mention feels like a step forward for both of us.

   carla and i plan to visit the raval this weekend. she’s been talking about the new exhibit at the museum. i’m looking forward to exploring it together. a small part of me still wonders what 'home' will feel like after all this.

   as the day winds down, i can hear the rain starting again, gentle but persistent. it has a way of making everything feel both fresh and heavy, an ending but also a beginning.

Jan 12, 2025

1. Diary

   the fog lifted just a little today, revealing a muted light that softened the world. i took a stroll to the raval, feeling the chill in my bones. reminded me of santiago's winter mornings, though there's a different kind of quiet here. stopped by my favorite café—tall lattes and a slice of pastís for a late breakfast. the server greeted me with a friendly smile, and i think they’ve started to recognize me. small victories.

   completed another round of paperwork for my press card. the bureaucracies here, though less chaotic than in chile, still leave me exhausted. sometimes it feels like i’m navigating a maze, one dead-end after another. made a voice note for mamá. she’s still working on my name, but i can hear the small shifts in her voice. it makes me smile.

   carla and i are planning a small weekend getaway soon. a break from the city would be nice, just to breathe and connect again. i miss those long walks along the beach, fingers intertwined. this evening, i wandered back home through the streets of poble-sec. the air crisp, the lampposts glowing softly. the night felt like a gentle promise, even amidst the lingering fog.

Jan 13, 2025

1. Diary

   my body feels like it’s settling in. the early morning light streams through the window, dancing on the walls of our cozy apartment. i took my meds at the usual time, counting each little pill as a promise to myself. i can’t stop thinking about how this year will unfold, the possibilities stretching out like the horizon i used to see from my mother’s balcony in santiago.

   carla and i walked through poble-sec again, the streets whispering stories. we shared a couple of laughs, discussing the latest happenings in the writers' group—so many voices, all stitched together in this tapestry of words. i feel a flicker of belonging here, despite the weight of bureaucracy that still shadows me. the press-card paperwork looms, but today, it felt lighter somehow.

   in the evening, i recorded a voice note for my mother. she’s been practicing my new name, and hearing her say it fills me with warmth. i can almost picture her smile on the other end, the way she used to watch me, confused but supportive.

   the fog rolled in again tonight, wrapping the city in a blanket. it feels like a gentle reminder of change, of what’s still to come.

Feb 2, 2025

1. Diary

   the rain poured today, heavy and relentless. it matched the mood i’ve been wrestling with—i’m in this strange in-between, feeling both hopeful and anxious about what’s next. walked to the clinic this afternoon, still a bit damp from the earlier downpour. the waiting room was quieter than usual; i kept my head down, listening to the murmurs of others around me, their stories threading through my thoughts.

   the nurse was as warm as ever, her smile a small comfort amidst the sterile air. we reviewed the next steps in my treatment plan. she reminded me to keep tracking my meds; i scribbled details in my little notebook. it’s becoming part of my routine, this dance with my body. (sometimes i think of it as a complicated choreography, trying to get all the steps right.)

   carla and i had a cozy evening in. we made pasta and listened to that old playlist of hers while the rain tapped against the windows—just a simple moment, but it felt like home. she wrapped her arms around me while we washed the dishes, her voice soft and reassuring. i told her about the clinic visit, and she leaned in closer, her curiosity genuine.

   as the night deepened, i thought of my mother. her voice notes are still my anchor. she’s getting used to my name, slowly but surely. i can’t wait for the day it feels completely right for both of us. today was another step. tomorrow, who knows? rain or sun, we'll keep moving forward.

Feb 21, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun broke through today, warm and inviting. i slipped out of the apartment to hit the public-health clinic for my check-in. the air smelled fresh, like promise. the nurse smiled when she saw me, said my name correctly — a small victory. i felt lighter, a touch of relief washing over me.

   after, i wandered through poble-sec, watching the locals spill into the plazas, laughter hanging in the air. caught a glimpse of a group of kids playing footie, their shouts ringing clear. moments like these make the city feel alive, vibrant. i thought of carla and how she would’ve loved to join me at the bar for a caña — we used to do that all the time. i miss those simple afternoons.

   back home, i sent a voice note to my mother, checking in. she’s still working on my name, but i hear it getting easier for her. each attempt feels like a thread weaving us closer, the warmth of familiarity in her voice even through the distance. i wish she could see this place, these moments.

   dinner was light today, just some pasta and leftover veggies. i sat by the window, letting the evening settle around me. looking out, the sky turned a gentle orange, and i felt a flicker of hope — maybe things are slowly falling into place. tomorrow, the rain returns, but for now, i’m content.

Mar 10, 2025

1. Diary

   the light this morning felt different, softer somehow. i stood by the window, watching rain fall, the droplets tracing paths down the glass. they reminded me of the little uncertainties swirling in my head. took my meds, counting each one slowly, letting the ritual ground me. a reminder that my body is home now, though it still feels foreign at times.

   carla was still asleep, curled up, her breaths steady and calm. i wanted to wake her, but i let her rest. she deserves the quiet moments after long days at work. later, we’ll walk through poble-sec, catch up on the week. maybe i’ll share some new poems i found in that writers' group. i feel lighter after our last call, hearing my mother struggle with my name but keep trying. every small victory counts.

   i spent some time poring over the press-card paperwork again; it feels more daunting than it should. the bureaucracy here is less constricting than in chile, but still, each form is a reminder of the layers i’m navigating. i think about what ‘home’ is becoming. not just a place, but a constellation of moments—like carla laughing at my stumbling catalan, the warmth of embraces, my name settling into the spaces around me.

   the rain's slowing, giving way to a quiet evening ahead, which feels like a gentle promise in itself.

Mar 21, 2025

1. Diary

   the air is thick with warmth today. spring is peeking through, teasing with gentle breezes and the scent of blooming jasmine. i took a long walk through poble-sec, letting the sunlight dapple my skin. every corner invites a new face or a familiar laugh; it breathes life into my senses.

   met with a few writers from the latin american queer group at a café. it feels good to share our stories, our struggles. we talked about the latest buzz in the journalism scene here. it’s still precarious, but there’s a sense of possibility, a flicker of hope.

   afterward, i called my mother. hearing her voice, still grappling with my name, but it’s softer now, less of a weight. we talk about everything and nothing. i can hear her smile through the phone. she asks about the weather here—“is it warming up?”—and i tell her about the jasmine.

   when i got home, i felt an urge to write. the light was fading, casting a golden hue over everything. i wrote a few lines, threading my body’s journey with the city’s pulse. it’s an odd dance, this transition.

   the evening air cools, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. there’s a calmness in the chaos, a warmth in the uncertainty. as the sun sets, i feel a quiet promise—of tomorrow, of growth, of home.

Mar 30, 2025

1. Diary

   the air is buzzing today. spring is fully here, the sunlight spills into our living room, wrapping around everything. i felt it on my skin as i stepped outside. the neighborhood was alive, people chatting on balconies, kids playing in the plazas. i stopped by the clinic for my check-in; the nurse asked about my transition, her eyes soft and encouraging.

   later, i grabbed a café con leche from the corner shop, the barista knows my order by heart now. as i walked, i thought about how my body feels different lately—lighter, more like me. i listened to a voice note from my mother; she’s still practicing my name, still a little hesitant, but it’s getting easier. each time feels like a small victory.

   carla and i talked about visiting her family soon. i’m anxious about it—her parents are lovely, but being in their space, i feel that weight of expectation. what if they see me as just a phase? we laughed about how her dad tries to speak to me in English, mixing up his words.

   this evening, we walked through poble-sec, the streets warm and welcoming. we passed the blooming jasmine again, and it reminded me of why i love this place. warmth, light, and hope mixed together, like the perfect evening.

Apr 17, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun was shining bright this morning, coaxing me out of bed with its warm fingers. i took a moment to stretch, feeling the soft sheets against my skin, still getting used to this body, this new life. a couple of voice notes from my mother yesterday, her voice still hesitant but softer with the name. cada día es un paso, i tell her, cada día un poco más.

   i walked to the public-health clinic later, the cobblestones warm under my feet. the flowers are bursting everywhere, colors blurring together, and i can't help but smile at the sight. there’s a sense of hope, like the city is finally waking up from a long slumber.

   met with the doctor, another round of paperwork. it's always the same, but today felt lighter. they said the hormones are working well, and it feels good to hear it. i can almost see the shape i’m becoming, like shadows dancing on the wall.

   carla and i took a stroll after dinner, weaving through the streets of poble-sec. she laughed at a street performer trying to juggle, a ball slipping through his fingers. we stopped for ice cream at our favorite spot, the taste of pistachio melting in the warmth. evenings like this remind me of home, of laughter weaving through the air.

   the night draws in, the sky a canvas of deep blues. it feels like a gentle ending, wrapping me in comfort as i prepare for tomorrow, another day, another step.