My sissy mourning cross-dresing feels like. I am the Walrus by the Beatles, totally nonsense but really deep and open to interpretation. I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together, See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly, I'm crying.
That line hits me so hard, “I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together…” It’s pure, swirling absurdity that somehow lands right in the middle of the most tender, confusing parts of being human. And right now, it feels like the perfect mirror for what I'm going through.
My sissy mourning crossdressing is exactly that kind of nonsense—beautiful, ridiculous, heartbreaking, and deeply true all at once. I'm grieving the husband I was, while also stepping into this soft, feminine space that feels both foreign and like coming home. It’s contradictory, it’s messy, it’s playful and painful in the same breath. And that’s what makes it so real. The walrus isn’t trying to make sense; the Walrus just is—goo goo g’joob and all. This is my mental breakdown, not madness, just being true to myself.
“See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly”… maybe that’s the world’s reaction to someone daring to be this open, this vulnerable, this unapologetically themselves while still carrying such heavy grief. People scatter because they don’t know what to do with the sight of a widower in lace and tears, laughing and sobbing at the same time. But I'm not running. I'm standing here in my silk stockings, widows weeds and my sorrow, crying, and somehow I think that makes me the bravest person in the room.
I'm allowed to be the Walrus right now—silly, profound, broken, and whole all at once. I don’t have to explain it to anyone, not even to myself. Just let it be nonsense that’s also sacred. I let the tears come, let the pretty things feel comforting, let the absurdity be part of the healing.
That line hits me so hard, “I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together…” It’s pure, swirling absurdity that somehow lands right in the middle of the most tender, confusing parts of being human. And right now, it feels like the perfect mirror for what I'm going through.
My sissy mourning crossdressing is exactly that kind of nonsense—beautiful, ridiculous, heartbreaking, and deeply true all at once. I'm grieving the husband I was, while also stepping into this soft, feminine space that feels both foreign and like coming home. It’s contradictory, it’s messy, it’s playful and painful in the same breath. And that’s what makes it so real. The walrus isn’t trying to make sense; the Walrus just is—goo goo g’joob and all. This is my mental breakdown, not madness, just being true to myself.
“See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly”… maybe that’s the world’s reaction to someone daring to be this open, this vulnerable, this unapologetically themselves while still carrying such heavy grief. People scatter because they don’t know what to do with the sight of a widower in lace and tears, laughing and sobbing at the same time. But I'm not running. I'm standing here in my silk stockings, widows weeds and my sorrow, crying, and somehow I think that makes me the bravest person in the room.
I'm allowed to be the Walrus right now—silly, profound, broken, and whole all at once. I don’t have to explain it to anyone, not even to myself. Just let it be nonsense that’s also sacred. I let the tears come, let the pretty things feel comforting, let the absurdity be part of the healing.
My sissy mourning cross-dresing feels like. I am the Walrus by the Beatles, totally nonsense but really deep and open to interpretation. I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together, See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly, I'm crying.
That line hits me so hard, “I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together…” It’s pure, swirling absurdity that somehow lands right in the middle of the most tender, confusing parts of being human. And right now, it feels like the perfect mirror for what I'm going through.
My sissy mourning crossdressing is exactly that kind of nonsense—beautiful, ridiculous, heartbreaking, and deeply true all at once. I'm grieving the husband I was, while also stepping into this soft, feminine space that feels both foreign and like coming home. It’s contradictory, it’s messy, it’s playful and painful in the same breath. And that’s what makes it so real. The walrus isn’t trying to make sense; the Walrus just is—goo goo g’joob and all. This is my mental breakdown, not madness, just being true to myself.
“See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly”… maybe that’s the world’s reaction to someone daring to be this open, this vulnerable, this unapologetically themselves while still carrying such heavy grief. People scatter because they don’t know what to do with the sight of a widower in lace and tears, laughing and sobbing at the same time. But I'm not running. I'm standing here in my silk stockings, widows weeds and my sorrow, crying, and somehow I think that makes me the bravest person in the room.
I'm allowed to be the Walrus right now—silly, profound, broken, and whole all at once. I don’t have to explain it to anyone, not even to myself. Just let it be nonsense that’s also sacred. I let the tears come, let the pretty things feel comforting, let the absurdity be part of the healing.
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