…buffering. -

a spoken word poem and photo
by Gynger St Clare
Little Rock, Arkansas
August 20, 2025



when i was powered by testosterone
i started each day like a javelin
hurled into motion
shaping time to my desires
driving hard toward an invisible target

same rhythm
every day
start strong
execute
repeat

no more of that

on estrogen
i meet the day as it comes
i observe it

from the first ray of sun
piercing the darkness of my apartment
to the moment at night i curl under my favorite blanket
and feel its waffle texture 
against my skin
lull me to sleep

i am in communion
watching
listening
feeling
smelling
sensing

not shaping the day
letting the day shape me

yes
there are still things i must carry
deadlines
divorce
logistics
the stuff of life
that demands me
but does not 
define me

i make my notes
list the places & spaces I'd like to visit
but most mornings
you’ll find me
standing
.
.
.
naked
.
.
.
in the sunrise
coffee in hand
letting Her warmth
charge my body
for the cycle ahead

you’d think a life like that
attuned & grounded as it is
would give me energy

but it doesn’t

by 2 pm
i am spent
spoons bent and melted
on the ground around me

converting an endocrine system
is hard work
like living inside a home
as it is remodeled

the old appliances
don’t work right
the new ones
have no manuals
half-wired rooms
dust everywhere
sparks flying
and that motherfucker
with the jackhammer
in the street
😱😱😱

i am going through puberty
alone
with a therapist
and two or three close friends
not with a circle of girls
sharing notes
sharing rituals
sharing becoming

this version of becoming
is solitary
in ways that ache


again


i don’t have energy to spare
but i can stiff-arm anxiety
in ways i never imagined

on testosterone
anxiety would spiral
days
weeks
months

now

estrogen gives me
sensory buffers
that filter out static
in seconds

trying to live on testosterone
was not impossible
but it was sisyphean

as estrogen begins
to flow through the rivers of my body
and my emotional pace shifts
from bmw on the autobahn
to gondola in venice

i begin to see it

the years of therapy
the searching
the journaling
the podcasts
the reading

i wasn’t lost
i was building

a warehouse of womanly ways
to which I now have the keys

i have the keys

i built a spaceship
not knowing
i'd find its power source

every trial
every heartbreak
every anxiety spiral
every quiet ache

was me
preparing

for the day
i would find
this fuel
this current
this force:

it was me

i was the woman
watching out
for me