A couple of years ago, when I started therapy as part of the process to begin HRT, one of the first things I brought up wasn’t hormones or names—it was the fact that I had spent most of my life feeling like the ugly friend. But recently, that old wound was reopened in a way I didn’t expect.
I was casually scrolling through one of my social media feeds when I saw a photo of three beautiful trans girls—smiling, vibrant, clearly having a great time. The tweet was from the person who posted the photo, and her caption read: “These are my gorgeous friends! I’m not in the picture because, well… you know.”
That simple line—“well, you know”—hit me like a punch to the chest.
I did know. Too well. And suddenly, I was back in all those moments I’d buried. The ones where I felt like I didn’t belong in the frame. The ones where I smiled through the hurt, knowing exactly why I was always the one taking the photo instead of being in it.
This article isn’t about moving past that pain. I haven’t. Not yet. But it’s something I’ve started unpacking—slowly, painfully, and honestly. And I’m sharing it here for anyone else who saw that tweet and thought, God… same.
Growing Up Without a Word for Who I Was
I’m 56 now, and for most of my life, I didn’t even have language to describe what I was going through. There was no TikTok, no support forums, no trans visibility. Back then, being transgender wasn’t something we saw in public life, and it sure wasn’t something you could safely talk about.
So I did what a lot of us did: I hid. I played the role people expected. I blended, or at least tried to. I became the one who made people laugh, who was easy to be around, who didn’t draw too much attention. I told myself that was enough.
But deep down, I was starving for more—for recognition. For someone to see me and say, “You’re beautiful. You matter. You belong.” That validation never came.
Surrounded by Beauty—But Never Feeling Part of It
I’ve always found myself surrounded by people who were, by society’s standards, conventionally attractive. My friends were tall, athletic, well-dressed, effortlessly photogenic. And I loved them. I truly did. But when you’re the odd one out, always playing a supporting character to someone else’s spotlight, it’s hard not to feel like a placeholder.
People would tell me things like:
- “You have such a great personality.”
- “You’re so funny!”
- “You’ve got really kind eyes.”
And look, I appreciated it… but I also heard what wasn’t being said. I had two eyes—I could see the difference between how they looked at my friends and how they looked at me. I knew the unspoken truth in their tone: You’re not attractive, but you’re still good company.
Over time, I became a master manipulator—of my own body. When I felt too skinny, I gained weight. When I felt too heavy, I dropped it. I trained hard. I put on muscle, then tried to lean out. But no matter how my body changed, I never felt like I was getting closer to what I wanted: to feel beautiful. Or at the very least, to feel like I wasn’t ugly.
And yet, nothing ever felt “just right.” I could sculpt myself like clay, but the mirror always showed me something I hated.
Cropped Out of the Frame—Literally
The hardest parts, though? They’re not always dramatic. They’re quiet. Repetitive. Almost invisible to everyone else.
Like when I realized that, in every school yearbook, I was never in the group shots. My individual picture? Sure, it was there. But when it came to the photos that showed friends laughing together or making memories, I wasn’t in them. Not once.
When social media came along, it was like someone turned that feeling up to eleven. I’d go to parties, events, holidays—times when I knew I was physically present. I was there. I remember being there. But when the photos got posted? I was missing. People I spent hours with had dozens of smiling, filtered pictures together… and I was either behind the camera or conveniently left out.
Eventually, I stopped volunteering to be in the photos. I figured, what’s the point? No one asked me to jump in. And honestly? No one really noticed when I stopped.
Did it hurt? Of course it did. It still does. Especially now, two years into my transition, when I’m still trying to figure out what it means to be seen—and whether I ever will be.
What Being “The Ugly Friend” Does to You
I didn’t always have the right words to express the feelings this caused, but now, thanks to therapy and late-night internet browsing, I’ve discovered that this experience has a name—and serious consequences.
- Low Self-Esteem: When you’re constantly passed over, cropped out, or described in ways that dodge your appearance, you start to believe you’re less-than. That you’re only worth what you do, not who you are. And for someone who already spent decades hiding, that message sinks deep.
- Body Dysmorphia and Gender Dysphoria: I already didn’t feel at home in my own body. Add to that the experience of being the “ugly one” in group settings, and the disconnect becomes unbearable. I still struggle to look in the mirror. I want to like my reflection. I want to see a woman there and believe she’s worth loving. But I don’t. Not yet.
- Depression and Social Withdrawal: You start opting out. Skipping hangouts. Avoiding the camera. Telling yourself you don’t need to be included. But deep down, you’re just trying to protect yourself from the pain of being forgotten again.
- Confusion and Self-Blame: You start to wonder if you’re being dramatic. If it’s your fault. If you’re imagining things. But the pattern is there. And when it keeps happening, no matter the friend, no matter the setting, it starts to feel like your existence is the problem.
Why This Hurts So Much in the Transgender Community
As trans people, we’re already fighting to be seen as ourselves. Every day is a battle for authenticity and survival. So when our own friends overlook us—not maliciously, but repeatedly—it hits harder.
Many of us missed out on the “normal” milestones of affirmation. We didn’t get to be told we were cute or desirable when we were younger. We didn’t have those glow-up moments that cis people reminisce about. We’re often doing this work late, alone, and while healing from years of silence.
So yeah. When we’re left out of a photo—or when people only comment on our “great personality”—it doesn’t feel neutral. It feels like confirmation of every doubt we’ve ever had about ourselves.
What I Try to Work On (Even If I’m Not There Yet)
I’m not writing this as someone who has overcome all of this. I haven’t. I still cry about it. I still scroll through photo and social media feeds and wonder why I wasn’t included. I still flinch when someone takes out a camera and doesn’t invite me in.
But I am trying. Slowly. Imperfectly. These are some things I’ve learned in therapy or through other trans folks online that I try to keep in my back pocket:
- Recognizing the Pattern Without Blaming Myself: Saying it out loud, “This keeps happening, and it’s not in my head,” helps. That validation alone is powerful.
- Setting Small Boundaries: Sometimes, I gently decline to take the group photo unless I’m also going to be in one. I still get anxious doing it—but it’s a way of saying, I deserve to be seen, too.
- Journaling What I Feel (Not Just What I Think): It’s easy to intellectualize the pain. Harder to sit with it. But when I write down the raw, emotional reactions—like “I felt invisible today”—it makes it real. And that’s a start.
- Trying Not to Disappear: Even when I want to hide, I push myself—sometimes—to be in one photo. To post something of myself online. To let others see me, even if I’m still working on how I see myself.
When Your Name Becomes the Punchline
There’s something else I’ve never really talked about publicly—not in detail, at least. It’s my online username: Bricki.
People tease me about it sometimes. They think it’s funny, or odd, or just a quirky name. I usually laugh it off, play along, or make some joke to steer the conversation away. But here’s the truth: there was a reason I chose that name. A very specific one.
If you’re not familiar with the darker corners of online trans culture—or the brutal slang that sometimes gets tossed around within and outside the community—there’s a trio of stereotypes that come up in discussions about trans women:
- The Dolls: the “ideal”—soft, passable, ultra-feminine. These are the girls people praise.
- The Hons: often used in a mocking or derogatory way to describe older or less “passable” trans women, especially those perceived as being in denial or clinging to outdated notions of femininity.
- The Bricks: the harshest insult of all. Women labeled as “bricks” are those whose features are deemed too masculine, too hard, too angular. Too far, in someone else’s opinion, from beauty.
Guess which one I identified with?
When I chose Bricki, it was supposed to be temporary. Just a username. A self-deprecating nod to how I saw myself back then. I wasn’t trying to reclaim the word. I wasn’t owning it. I was just trying to survive. Trying to beat others to the punchline so it wouldn’t hurt as badly when someone else joked first.
If I called myself a brick, maybe it would sting a little less when someone else said it.
But the name stuck. And while I’ve gotten used to it, the truth is—it still hurts sometimes. Not because people mean harm, but because it’s a reminder of how deep those wounds run. A reminder that I’ve always seen myself as the one with the sharp angles. The one who doesn’t fit the mold. The one who still doesn’t know if she’ll ever be seen as beautiful.
So yeah, it’s a joke. But like most self-deprecating jokes, it comes from pain. A little armor I put on. A way to say, “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to say it—I already did.”
The Bottom Line
If you’re reading this and you know exactly what I’m talking about—if you’re the one behind the camera, the cropped-out friend, the forgotten one—I want you to know this:
You’re not imagining it. And you’re not alone. You deserve to be seen. Not just as a supporting character. Not just for your humor or kindness. But fully, completely, in all your imperfect, beautiful realness.
I don’t have a happy ending to share yet. Maybe I never will in the way I imagined. But I’m learning that naming the pain is an act of resistance. And sharing it? That’s a kind of healing, too.
