Deadname Eulogy

A powerful letter to a former self - from Kelly Aster of Wayfinder 🏳️‍⚧️: Gen Xer Notes from the Undiscovered Country

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Qstack is proud to offer our community the following video and text by

Kelly Aster

.

In this powerful performance, Kelly invites us into her journey as a Gen X trans woman navigating a world marked by growing threats and upheaval, but hard-won transformation, too. With honesty, grit, and the wisdom of lived experience, she opens a window into the challenges and triumphs of coming out and rediscovering herself. Kelly’s perspective reminds us that authenticity, courage, and compassion toward all our selves are vital guides on the path to freedom, no matter the obstacles.

Note from Kelly: "I'm not sure if I mentioned this before anywhere, but writing that spoken word performance inspired me to come to Substack and write more. It was so ridiculously cathartic...I couldn't get it out of my head even after the performance, and I *had* to keep going and keep writing, even if only a few people read it."

We’re so glad you did, Kelly! ❤️🍊💛💚💙💜🩷🩵🤎🖤🩶

*Volume up (you’ll want to hear every word)*

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The following is the final copy for a spoken word performance delivered at an artists' salon event in an undisclosed location in the city of Chicago, USA sometime in April 2025. It's a eulogy of sorts, a goodbye to my former self. I do deadname myself, yes, but -- as a form of both therapy and art -- it felt right at the time. Still does.

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Dear Kurt,

It has been over a year since you were last seen, though it feels like a decade to me - your absence a constant reminder of what can never be again as I struggle to pick up the mess of a life you left behind. Your last days were incomprehensibly painful; you were worn out and exhausted, but you put on your brave face one last time to protect me as we floated in a daze through airport security and the flight back home. You followed as long as you could, hiding in the shadows during the worst of my dysphoria and self-hatred, but I knew you were there. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of you while putting on makeup or getting my face lasered, but soon the glimpses became...feelings, more and more and more fleeting.

And just as life began to fall apart amidst the perfect storm last year, I looked for you to draw on that infamous rage and found nothing but a tangled mess of ADHD and trauma. At the time I was admitted to an intensive - and intense - therapy program, which was the best thing I could have done at the time; in the second week, I broke your eleven-year streak of sobriety and traumatized my poor wife. I nearly lost everything, but it gave me the space to begin to heal.

I wish you could have met the people in that program. So many like us...some neurodivergent, some queer, some minorities, all trying to find a way to cope and connect and find fulfillment in life. For the first time I can remember, I felt like I belonged, like I could be myself, and I no longer felt alone. Some of them are dear friends today.

I wish you had given yourself a chance. The time you went as Joan Jett for Halloween was a sign, in hindsight...and so was the powerful feeling of connection when Anneliese applied your makeup before the party. It wasn't a crush, but something else, something different...a feeling of acknowledgement. She had no way of knowing at the time - heck, no one did - but Anneliese saw the real you that night and helped bring it out, if only for a brief moment. It's no surprise you spiraled into depression the next day and cut that mohawk into your head a year later. Wasn't it just a costume? Why did your heart hurt so much? If you knew you were a woman, would it have made a difference? I think about this sometimes and feel sorry for you.

I wish you had given the world a chance. Christy doesn't need a caretaker; she never did. And your friends and family are capable of support; you just pushed them away without asking for help. I had to figure this out the hard way, and I'm still learning.

I wish Dad could have met the real me. I like to think he'd be as accepting as your mom and brothers, but could he have forgiven you for not reaching out when he was dying? Could I ever forgive you? He was terribly abusive and drove you away, but did he deserve that? I try not to dwell on thoughts like that too long. I'm not sure I need answers anyway.

I went to a "salon" event, or something - I'm not sure what to call it - last month, and for the second time in my short life I can remember feeling like I belonged, like I could be myself. So many like us...some neurodivergent, all queer, all minorities in a manner of speaking, and all trying to find a way to cope and connect and find fulfillment in life. It was then that I realized my tribe can not be found in one specific place or point in time, but everywhere...and I was awestruck by the deafening power of their story, poem, and song. Their voices were beautiful, and they, too, were the voices of my people.

There's so little time left. You would have turned fifty just two months ago, but really, how much time do I have left? I could be murdered for simply existing. Such is the reality I'm forced to deal with, and it terrifies me. But lately, in all honesty, I've come to recognize a new, strange feeling of determination.

I used to wish you were still here and that I still had that rage that often felt like an unstoppable force. But it never went away, and it now manifests as the sheer will to exist. I feel like I have so much to give, so much to say in the time I have left. And that force draws me forward, encourages me to join the fray...to fight...to resist...to help others. To keep pushing forward. Mom doesn't understand and probably never will, but I don't need her understanding to know I can't live like this...in a country that views me and people like me as subhuman. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to hide anymore. I feel like I have a second chance now, a chance to truly live, and that is something that I refuse to concede.

You have no gravestone, nothing to mark your passing, nothing to which I can turn for solace, comfort, or closure in times when I mourn you and your profound depth of absence. As troubled as you were, you did not exist for nothing. You were here, and now you are gone. So I honor you by living as good a life as I possibly can, according to the values I hold close to the heart I never knew I had. I won't let them take that from me. I owe you that much. Goodbye, Kurt.

Your twin spirit,

Kelly