Becoming Joanna

A New Start

May 22, 2025 by Joe

My name is Joe. At least, that’s the name I was given and the name most people still know me by. But today, I’m taking the first real step toward becoming who I’ve always been. My name is Joanna. And this is the beginning of my story.

I grew up on Teakwood Terrace, the kind of street where kids rode bikes until the streetlights came on, and everyone knew which house gave out the best Halloween candy. My family still lives there, in the same split-level house with the worn green shutters and the cracked driveway that somehow never gets fixed. It’s where I learned how to keep quiet, how to keep my head down, and how to do what was expected.

For as long as I can remember, I worked at my family’s limo business, but not in the way that might sound. I wasn’t behind the wheel in a sharp black suit, charming clients on the way to weddings or proms. I was the one in the back lot with a bucket and sponge, scrubbing down the stretch Escalades and polishing chrome in the summer heat. Rain or shine, hot or freezing, I was there. Cleaning. Wiping. Doing the invisible work.

People never looked twice at me. I was “just Joe”—the quiet guy who kept the cars looking good. And I convinced myself for a long time that maybe that was enough. That maybe a small life was a safe life. That blending in was the best I could hope for.

But the truth is, I’ve always known something wasn’t right. That the way people saw me didn’t match the way I felt inside. I didn’t have the language for it as a kid. I just knew I felt out of place in my own skin. Like I was living someone else’s story, stuck in a role that had been assigned to me.

Now I’m 33 years old, and I’ve spent most of my life pretending. Pretending to be a man. Pretending to be okay. Pretending I didn’t want more. And I'm tired of pretending.

So today, I’m saying it plainly: I am a woman. My name is Joanna. And I am beginning my transition.

I don’t know what the road ahead looks like. I don’t have all the answers, and I know there will be tough days. But for the first time, I’m giving myself permission to dream of a life that feels honest. I’m not trying to be anyone else anymore. Just me.

If you’ve ever felt invisible or afraid to take that first step, I hope you know you're not alone. I’ll be using this blog to share my journey, messy, beautiful, uncertain as it may be.

Thanks for reading. Here’s to second chances.

—Joanna (formerly Joe)

Telling Pam and Steve

May 24, 2025 by Joanna

Two days ago, I hit “publish” on the first post of my life that felt real.

Today, I’m sitting here still reeling from what came next: I told my parents.

My mom, Pam, took a break from folding laundry when I walked in. She always folds laundry in the living room—knees up, talk shows murmuring in the background, a cup of lukewarm tea within reach. I sat down next to her. I didn’t plan some dramatic speech. I just told her.

"Mom," I said, "I’m transitioning. I’m not going to live as Joe anymore. My name is Joanna."

She didn’t blink. She didn’t even look surprised.

She put the towel down, took a breath, and said, "I always knew you were carrying something. I just didn’t know what. Thank you for telling me."

Then she hugged me—tight, firm, full of more acceptance than I’d ever hoped for.

She asked questions. She listened. She even cried a little, but not because she was sad. “I’m crying,” she said, “because I’m proud of you. This takes guts.”

I didn’t realize how much I needed her words until they were there. It felt like the air came back into the room.

Then came Dad.

Telling Steve was like stepping onto thin ice, knowing it might crack no matter how gently I walked.

He’s a former Secret Service agent. The kind of man who irons his jeans, triple-checks door locks, and doesn’t believe in gray areas. He raised me to be “a man’s man.” Strong. Stoic. Unshakeable. I was never any of those things, and I think deep down, he always noticed.

When I told him, his jaw set. His face went cold, unreadable. The kind of look I imagine he used when he was guarding foreign dignitaries or staring down threats.

"This some kind of joke?" he said. His voice was low. Dangerous.

"No," I said. "It’s not."

He didn’t yell. That might’ve been easier. He just shook his head, like he was trying to shake the words out of his ears.

"Joe," he said—refusing to say Joanna—"you’re a grown adult. But this... this is not something I can support."

Then he walked out of the room.

We haven’t spoken since.

It hurt more than I expected. I thought I’d prepared for this. For rejection. For disappointment. But nothing really prepares you for your own father looking at you like you're a stranger.

Still, I don't regret telling him. I won't go back into hiding because someone else can't understand. Especially when I finally understand myself.

Pam said he'll come around. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. But I’m not waiting for permission to be who I am.

If you’re reading this and dreading that same conversation, please know you’re not alone. Sometimes the ones we love aren’t ready. Sometimes they surprise us in the best ways. Sometimes in the worst. But your truth is still yours.

I’m still Joanna. Still standing.

And I’m not going anywhere.

—Joanna.

Letting the Dust Settle

May 25, 2025 by Joanna

Last night was family dinner. We still do Sunday dinners, like clockwork. Usually it’s a mix of small talk, Pam’s roast chicken, and Steve reminding us the thermostat’s not free. But last night... it was quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

Steve wouldn’t even look at me.

He sat at the head of the table, picking at his food like it was a chore. Never said my name. Barely said anything at all. At one point, I dropped my fork and the sound of it hitting the plate felt louder than the entire room. Pam tried to keep the conversation going—asked me about the weather, of all things—but the tension was so thick it felt like breathing through a wool blanket.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t storm out. I just sat there and let it be what it was. A quiet kind of heartbreak.

After dinner i went up to my room and called my sister Steph. We haven’t always been the closest,she’s married, just had a kid and a whole life of her own—but I needed someone. I told her. Told her everything.

She didn’t even hesitate. “Jo,” she said, “I’ve always known. Since we were kids. I support you, always.”

Hearing that from her... it was like a pressure valve releasing. I didn’t know how much I needed someone in my corner until she put herself there without me asking.

This morning, I packed a bag and booked a ticket to Columbus. I’m heading to my Uncle Greg’s place for the week. Just need to get out of the house, give Steve some space, and breathe somewhere that doesn’t feel so heavy.

I used to live with Greg back in my twenties. My parents sent me there to “get my act together” when I was partying too much and coming home at all hours. Columbus always felt like a second chance, even if I didn’t use it right back then.

Greg’s a hotshot lawyer—big office, big opinions. I don’t know how he’s going to react. I haven’t told him yet. I just said I needed a place to crash for a few days. When I was a kid, he’d take me to Ohio State games—he’s had season tickets forever. Some of my happiest memories are sitting in the stands with him, both of us yelling like fools when the Buckeyes scored. I hope those memories still matter. I hope I still matter to him.

I’m nervous. But I’m going anyway.

Sometimes space is the only way people can start to understand. And maybe it’s what I need, too. A week to think. To rest. To remind myself that I’m not broken—I’m just becoming.

I’ll write again once I get to Columbus.

Still me. Still Joanna.

—Joanna

Columbus, Again

May 25, 2025 by Joanna

The drive to Columbus was a mixed bag, some stretches felt like my mind was going a hundred miles an hour, running through everything that’s happened and everything that might come next. Other times, it was quiet. Almost meditative. Just me, the road, and a silence that felt like an exhale I’d been holding in for years.

When I got to Uncle Greg’s, he was curious, asked what was going on back home that made me need a break. I didn’t have it in me to explain just yet. I think I just wanted to be somewhere that felt simple, even if just for a little while.

He suggested dinner tonight at Mitchell’s Steakhouse. That place has history for us—he used to take me there when I was living here in my twenties. Back when everything felt a little chaotic, but possibility was always just around the corner.

I think I might tell him tonight.

For now, I’m just unpacking, getting settled, and letting myself breathe.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

Back Porch Confessions

May 25, 2025 by Joanna

Tonight was dinner with Greg. We had a few drinks, and I ordered the New York Strip—he had the ribeye, like always. I hadn’t been to Mitchell’s in years and forgot just how good it is.

We had a couple drinks. Laughed. Talked about work, the Bills’ chances this year, the family, even the weather, anything but the thing I knew I needed to say. And I couldn’t do it. Not in the booth. Not with the waiter refilling our waters and the couple next to us celebrating their anniversary. So I let it go.

On the way home, I asked him to stop at a gas station. I grabbed a six pack of Voodoo Ranger IPA, my favorite, and we sat out on his back porch, cracking cans and watching the stars get swallowed up by clouds. It felt easy out there. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that invites truth in.

That’s when I told him.

I told him I’m transitioning. I told him about the blog, about Pam, about Steve. All of it.

At first, he didn’t say much. Just kind of sat there with his beer, nodding like he was buffering. But then he said, “I get it. I mean I don’t totally get it, but I understand why you’d need to be honest about it. That matters.”

He said he’d talk to Steve. Said maybe hearing it from someone else will help him see it differently. Greg’s not Steve’s brother by blood—he’s Pam’s youngest brother—but he was around a lot when my parents were dating. Enough to feel like family in a way that counts.

Now I’m lying in bed, head spinning. Not just about Steve. About Greg. About what I said. About whether I broke something by being honest. I keep replaying it all, wondering if the silence that followed meant anything more than shock.

I hope I didn’t lose him.

But I’d rather risk that than keep hiding.

I need to sleep. I need my brain to stop rewinding the night like it’s trying to find a version where I stayed quiet. But that version doesn’t serve me anymore.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

Morning Light

May 26, 2025 by Joanna

I woke up to the smell of eggs and toast—something so ordinary, but it felt like the world had shifted. Lighter. Freer. Like I could breathe more fully than I have in a long time.

Over breakfast, Greg sat across from me, coffee in hand, and told me he spoke to Steve last night. I guess after I went to bed, they had a long talk. About me. About everything.

Greg said Steve wants to talk. Face to face.

That sentence landed like a weight and a lifeline at the same time. The thought of seeing Steve again—of standing in front of him, fully myself—is overwhelming. My stomach is in knots. My mind keeps leaping ahead to every possible version of how it could go. But deep down, I know I need to face it. Not for him—for me.

So, I’m going to pack up my things. Load the car. Head home.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me, and I won’t pretend I’m not scared. But I’m not hiding anymore. Not from Steve. Not from anyone.

I’ll keep you all updated. Thank you for walking this with me.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

The Next Ask

May 26, 2025 by Joanna

When I pulled into the driveway, Steve was already there, arms crossed, pacing like he’d been waiting a while. My stomach flipped the moment I saw him. But I got out of the car anyway.

We didn’t go inside. We just stood out there in the cool evening air, the silence between us heavier than anything we said. Finally, he broke it.

He told me he doesn’t fully understand what I’m going through—but that I’m his child, and I always will be.

That word—child—stuck with me. It wasn’t daughter. It wasn’t Joanna. But it also wasn’t rejection. It was something. A beginning. And maybe that’s all I can ask for today.

The next person in the family I need to tell is Uncle Kevin.

He and I have always been close. Outside of helping with the family business, he acts, mostly small productions, but he’s a big deal in our world. He runs this immersive comedy play called Tony and Tina’s Wedding. I’ve done side parts in it for years. Sometimes the drunk priest. Once even the DJ.

But the part I’ve always wanted? Tina. The bride. The dress, the hair, the full transformation. I’ve never said it out loud, not even to myself in the mirror. It always felt too far away. Too bold. Too real.

But now... I think I’m ready to ask. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But soon.

Because the truth is, I’ve never just wanted to act like her, I’ve always wanted to be her. And I don’t think I’m afraid of wanting that anymore.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

When El Supremo Came Home

May 27, 2025 by Joanna

Today was the day. I finally had the courage to ask Uncle Kevin if I could play Tina in the next run of Tony and Tina’s Wedding.

On the way into work, I ran the scenario through my head a thousand times, imagining every possible outcome. I practiced my tone, my posture, even my walk to his office. And when I got there, I didn’t hesitate. I marched straight in, ready to speak my truth.

But the moment I swung the door open, my heart stopped.

There, standing in Kevin’s office, was Uncle Jimmy. Or as we call him, El Supremo.

I had no idea he was back from Italy. Last I knew, he was out there with his friend Gary and Gary’s wife, sending me goofy tourist pics like the one where he’s pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa with one finger. Before he left, he asked me to feed his goldfish, and I could’ve sworn he said he’d be home the first week of June. Not today.

Uncle Jimmy is... well, he’s a presence. The kind of guy who drives an El Camino, takes long road trips on his Harley, and started the family limo business with nothing but grit and charisma. He’s a man’s man. And, honestly, the one person I was dreading having this conversation with.

But life doesn’t always wait for the perfect moment. So I didn’t wait either.

I told them. Both of them. Right there in that office, with the sun pouring through the blinds and my heart in my throat.

I told them I’m transitioning. That my name is Joanna. That this isn’t a phase, it’s who I’ve always been underneath.

The room went quiet. Their jaws practically hit the floor. They asked who else knew. They asked if Pam and Steve were aware. And then, they asked for time. Told me to come back later after they’ve had a chance to process it all.

I never even got to ask Kevin about playing Tina.

But I did something bigger today. I spoke my truth, even when the room looked nothing like I imagined. And that counts for something.

I’ll go back later. I’ll give them time. But I’m not backing down.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

My Struggle

June 01, 2025 by Joanna

Some days, the world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to see if I’ll break. I don’t know if it’s waiting to cheer me on or to say, “Told you so.” Maybe both. But today, I’m still here, still standing, still Joanna. I'm carrying the weight of being seen for who I am and the struggle of what that costs.

I know it’s been a while. I’ve had a lot to think about.

The past week has been a whirlwind. Telling Pam and Steve, then Greg, then Kevin and Uncle Jimmy. It’s like I’ve been ripping open pieces of myself and handing them out, hoping the people I love will hold them gently. Some did. Pam’s hug, Steph’s unwavering support, Greg’s quiet nod, those are lifelines I cling to when the doubt creeps in. But others, like Steve’s cold silence, Jimmy’s stunned pause, and the comments online that cut deeper than I want to admit, are reminders that not everyone is ready to see me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The struggle isn’t just the conversations, though those are hard enough. It’s the quiet moments after. The ones where I’m alone in my room, replaying every word, every glance, wondering if I said too much or not enough. Did I explain myself right? Did I sound too defensive? Too soft? Too bold? I’ve spent 33 years trying to fit into someone else’s idea of me. Joe, the quiet guy. The one who never made waves. Now, every step I take as Joanna feels like a rebellion. And rebellions are exhausting.

There’s a physical weight, too. I catch myself in the mirror sometimes, and it’s like staring at a stranger I’m only just meeting. I’m not on hormones yet. I haven’t changed my wardrobe much. Just a few small things. Some mascara. A pair of earrings I bought on impulse. But I see her there, Joanna, in the way my eyes soften when I let myself smile. Then I step outside, and the world doesn’t always see her. It sees Joe. It sees a body that doesn’t match my heart yet. That dissonance stings. It’s like living in a house that doesn’t feel like home, knowing I’m rebuilding it brick by brick but wishing I could just move in already.

The hardest part, though, is the hate. Not just from strangers online, though those comments, the ones calling me “sick” or worse, burn. It’s the hate I feel from people I thought I knew. The ones who look at me like I’m betraying them by being honest. Like I owe them the version of me they were comfortable with. I want to scream sometimes, “This isn’t about you.” But I don’t. I swallow it, because I’m still learning how to take up space without apologizing for it.

And yet, there’s light in the struggle. Every time I say my name, Joanna, out loud, it feels like a small victory. Every time someone like Pam or Steph or even Greg chooses to stand with me, it’s a reminder that I’m not alone. I’m learning to lean on those moments, to let them carry me through the days when the weight feels too heavy. I’m learning that being seen isn’t just about being understood. It’s about refusing to hide, even when it hurts.

I don’t have it all figured out. Some days, I’m not sure I have anything figured out. But I’m here, writing this, because I promised myself I’d keep going. For the kid I was, who didn’t have the words. For the people reading this who might be carrying their own quiet truths. For me, because I deserve to live a life that’s mine.

And today, for once, I feel a little lighter. It’s Pride Parade day, and I’m heading out to check it out. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I get there. Maybe overwhelmed. Maybe emotional. Maybe proud. But I know I need to see it. To stand in it. To feel the joy and the noise and the belonging, even just for a moment.

So yeah, it’s a struggle. It’s messy and raw and sometimes it feels like I’m walking through fire. But I’m walking. And every step is a little closer to the woman I’ve always been.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

The Offline Silence (and the Return)

June 16, 2025 by Joanna

They say silence can be loud. And when my blog vanished, the silence roared.

It started with a text from Steph: “Hey, Jo… your blog isn’t loading?” At first, I figured it was a glitch, maybe a hiccup with Firebase or a bad connection. But then I checked for myself. The dashboard wouldn’t load. The pages were gone. Error messages where my story used to be.

I felt sick.

And then Greg called. His voice was tense, like he was trying to cushion a blow before it landed. “Steve pulled some strings,” he said. “Some old friends from his Secret Service days. He told them the site was ‘compromising the family.’ Asked if there was anything they could do to make it disappear.”

That’s what it was to him. A threat. Not a daughter finding her voice, but a liability.

I should’ve seen it coming. He’s always been the man with the locked jaw and tighter grip. When he couldn’t understand, he tried to control. When he couldn’t control, he tried to erase. That’s what this was, an erasure. A silencing.

But here’s the thing about trying to delete someone’s truth: it doesn’t stay buried for long.

It took some time. Some digging. A few frantic messages. A reset of credentials, a call to Firebase support, and a little help from someone who believes in me (thank you, Mateo, you’re a wizard). But the blog is back. I’m back.

You can knock down the door, but I’ll rebuild the house. You can shut off the lights, but I’ll strike a match. I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t be quiet just because someone with a badge and a bruised ego says I should be.

This space is mine. My name is Joanna. This is my story. And no one, not even my father, gets to decide whether it’s told.

Still here. Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna

Drifting Rooms and Robot Waiters

June 18, 2025 by Joanna

Since my last post, things between me and Steve have only gotten colder. We barely speak. We barely exist in the same room. Honestly, I’ve stopped trying. I can’t even look at him, and he won’t even look at me.

Family dinners have turned into a quiet protest. I take my plate upstairs, door half shut, TV low. Pam still knocks sometimes offers dessert or asks if I want to talk but it’s mostly just the sound of the hallway creaking under her feet. She’s been trying to talk me off the ledge, reminding me this house is still my home. But it hasn’t felt like that in a while.

I’ve been thinking about moving out. Just to get some space. A little breathing room. There’s that spare apartment above the limo office, the one Uncle Jimmy uses for storage and poker nights. I want to ask him if I can stay there. But with everything that’s happened lately, I’m scared of what he might say. Scared of hearing “no” from someone else in this family. Or worse, disappointment.

Still, life keeps rolling.

Tonight we’re celebrating Steph’s birthday. We’re going to Wind Sushi, the place with the cool little robot trays that zip food right to your table like they’re on a mission from the future. If you’ve never been, it’s weirdly magical. And if you’re reading this, Steph happy birthday. You’ve been my anchor more times than I can count, and I love you for it.

Earlier this week, my neighbor Matt returned the cans we collected from the limo business. We split the cash and made a plan: Thursday night, Santora’s Bar and Grill, two seats at the counter, and a few cosmos with our names on them. It’s nothing huge. But it’s something. A flicker of joy, a reminder that I still get to live my life, even if Steve can’t see me for who I am.

And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Life goes on with or without his approval. I’m not waiting around anymore.

Still me. Still becoming.

—Joanna