OneI wasn’t always like this. Selfish, that is. But when you’re born with a vagina, an unspoken thing happens. A chipping away begins, like a sculptor to clay, to ensure you fit a certain mold. It begins early, with well-meaning people commenting on your appearance, your outfits, your adaptability, your generosity, your kindness, your smile, your ability to give. And then one day you look down and realize you’re contorted into a shape that is entirely misaligned with who you are: contoured into a figure that doesn’t reflect your true essence.
You literally cannot find your Self.
•
Growing up, I was the dutiful, well-behaved middle child. The determined, happy-go-lucky sister. The Enneagram 9, also known as the “Peacemaker.” I also loved being seen, jumping into the frame of my mother’s video camera to showcase my newest dance move while my sister and brother stood in the background. I wanted to be a star. And in many ways, I was. I accumulated accolades with acceleration and ease. My résumé through high school was extensive and nauseating: three-sport captain-athlete, All-American lacrosse player, and taker of AP classes. My sister joked that if I hadn’t been so hilarious and humble, I would have been entirely unlikable. I was actively recruited to play Division I lacrosse by a range of colleges and accepted early at Yale University.
I entered college a good, obedient, unsensual, competitive, high-achieving virgin.
I met Alex on our first day of college. More specifically, in Spanish 101, in the basement of an eighteenth-century Gothic building on Yale’s campus. As the other students quietly settled into oak desk chairs, I categorized them: the Legacy, the International Genius, the Musician, the Young Prodigy. To get into Yale, you didn’t need to be particularly well-rounded; you simply had to be exceptional at one thing. And I was the Athlete, dressed as I would be dressed most days—in monochromatic lacrosse sweats and a messy side ponytail.
Ten minutes into class, the door opened and a boy with thick, wavy brown hair walked in. He had a surfer’s tan and wore an Incredible Hulk tank top, floral board shorts, and flip-flops. Basically a Jersey Shore Ken doll: flawlessly handsome, confident, and smiling. I pegged him as a fellow Athlete and likely—like me—in this early-morning section because of an inflexible afternoon practice schedule.
“Alejandro Faherty,” our professor said, looking down at her attendance sheet. “Adelante, adelante.” He sat down at the empty desk next to me.
He smelled of metal.
The professor soon sorted us into pairs to introduce ourselves through rudimentary introductions in Spanish. Alex and I were put together.
My name is Kerry. I am from Buffalo. I play lacrosse. I want to be in the FBI when I grow up.
My name is Alex. I am from New Jersey. I play football. When I grow up, I want to have a clothing company.
Clothing company, huh, I thought to myself, surprised to hear this last answer. I’d only been at Yale for a week, but already knew that most of the male athletes would go into finance. (Spoiler alert: Upon graduation, Alex went into finance.)
After class, we walked out together.
“See you tomorrow,” he said, giving me a fist bump.
“Hasta mañana,” I said, giving him a pound back.
•
Over the course of that first semester, Alex and I slowly got to know each other better. After class, we would head to the dining hall, and as we chewed greasy, protein-packed food, I learned about his childhood: He grew up in a small beach town and had an older brother, an identical twin, and four half siblings. He loved surfing and Bruce Springsteen and drove a beat-up yellow Xterra. His mom, Ninie, had an open-house policy and cooked for everyone who walked in the door: big dinners of paella and prime rib and strawberry angel food cake with hand-beaten whipped cream. His dad, Roger, was a charismatic and handsome entrepreneur who wore impeccable custom suits during the week and colorful Hawaiian shirts on the weekend. He loved sports and Sea Breeze cocktails and never talked about his feelings.
“There was a lot of fighting at home,” Alex said.
“That must have been hard,” I said, waiting for him to say more.
He didn’t. Instead, he shrugged.
I thought comparatively about my childhood. We were not fighters in our family, which didn’t mean we didn’t have disagreements, but rather that most things simply weren’t discussed. When my brilliant and witty brother, Brendan, started getting brain freezes—a mental paralysis that made it impossible for him to finish his homework and surely related to the pressure to get into a great college—the word “depression” was whispered between my parents but then dismissed.
“Don’t say anything to anyone,” my dad said to me one night as I heard Brendan sobbing from the next room over. I agreed to keep the secret. But later that night, I brought Brendan a slice of American cheese and a glass of ice water—the way he always did for me growing up—and asked him how I could help.
When my sister, Shannon, started throwing up after she ate, my mom asked me what to do. “I don’t know, Mom,” I said. “I’m fifteen.”
“Please don’t talk about it at school,” she added before ending the conversation, and I agreed. But later that night I knocked on Shannon’s door, offered to clean her room, and asked her how I could help. Several years later, when I finally confided in my parents that I was worried Shannon was struggling with addiction, I was again asked not to talk about it with anyone.
When my dad got cancer and had to get weekly radiology treatments at the hospital, he made my mom swear to not tell my siblings and me. My mom promised to keep his illness a secret, which she did, even abiding by his request to not wait in the waiting room as he got his treatment. Heaven forbid someone recognize her. It wasn’t until years later that my sister read one of my mom’s journals and confronted her and my dad about the discovery (Hello, Dad, you had cancer?!). My dad dismissed the fact it was a big deal, saying, “I didn’t want to worry you all. And you don’t need to tell anyone about it.”
Secrets. Secrets. Secrets.
I learned pretty quickly growing up, both in the pews of the Catholic church we attended every Sunday and within the walls of our suburban Buffalo home, that some parts of ourselves were good and made to be shared, and some parts were not good and meant to be hidden. Parts like depression, addiction, lust, anger, sadness, or sickness were off the table for discussion. The word “shame” was never spoken, but even as a kid, I learned what it felt like to be buried in the body: sticky, blood red, and solid. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somewhere along the line I decided to be the sibling who was always fine. I wouldn’t burden anyone with my needs or wants. I’d be better than fine: I would be successful! Happy! Helpful! Need-free! Selfless!
I did not tell Alex any of this over our scrambled eggs, of course. Instead, I changed the subject to sports and told him what I thought was a funny story about how my high school basketball coach called me by the wrong name for four years: “Terry.”
“You let him call you by the wrong name?” Alex asked, incredulous.
“I think he liked calling me Terry,” I said laughing, “because it went so well with ‘Terrible, Terry, terrible,’ which he said every time I missed a layup. And I missed a lot of them.”
Alex laughed. “Talk about being easygoing,” he said.
I smiled at the compliment. It was true that I didn’t take things personally. I went with the flow.
“Easygoing and a subpar basketball player,” I added.
Alex laughed again, and then gazed a little more deeply into my eyes. “Do you know that I don’t have any friends who are girls?”
“Am I your friend?” I asked.
“First one,” he said, smiling.
“Lucky me,” I responded, my stomach flipping.
So I knew Alex liked me as a friend, but I couldn’t tell if he found me attractive or not.
Copyright © 2026 by Kerry Docherty. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
