HE/THEY
There are constricting forces at play in our country right now. For me, for my gender non-conforming friends, and for the life we've been striving to build, staying silent feels like a slow death. So this is my way of pushing back—of offering a force of expansion in the face of contraction.
Happy Pride Month.
With love,
Troy
For me, David Bowie is an icon for the words I’m about to share.
PAST
For the past several years I have found myself entering unfamiliar terrain. The world of gender pronouns felt foreign—like a new language I hadn’t been taught. I had spent a lifetime using a narrow, traditional vocabulary, shaped by decades of cultural programming. Masculine and feminine. He and she. There didn’t seem to be room for much else. Naturally, I felt cautious, even clumsy, as I moved through conversations about gender. I worried I might get it wrong. There were rules, I thought—rules I didn’t understand.
But then something shifted.
I was rereading a piece of writing where I’d used the word “his,” and a quiet realization dawned on me: these aren’t rigid rules at all. In fact, the beauty of this new linguistic space is precisely its freedom. There’s a fluidity that allows each of us to find our own truth, to name ourselves in a way that feels real.
That was a turning point.
I understood that identity isn’t something handed to us—it’s something we create. And that creation doesn’t have to be final. It can change. It can expand. I can be whoever I am becoming. Snap! In that moment, I saw myself differently. My journey mirrored a broader cultural shift: one that embraces gender as a spectrum, not a binary; one that honors the right of each person to define themselves.
This isn’t just about pronouns or politics—it’s about living fully and expansively. And I’m finally ready to breathe into that expansion—not just for me, but for all of us.
PRESENT
Today, I choose to use the pronouns He/They. This decision comes from deep reflection about how I move through the world—physically, spiritually, and energetically.
Physically, I identify as a man. I feel at home in this body, and that physical sense of self is something I honor. If I had to choose a bathroom symbol, I’d choose the one without the skirt—not because I reject femininity, but because that symbol aligns most closely with how I experience myself in this form. (Though, let’s be honest, it’s strange that our public signs still reduce gender to whether or not someone’s wearing a skirt—a garment that, globally, men have worn for centuries. These symbols reinforce limits we don’t need anymore.)
I experience myself as something far more expansive. I am not half-masculine and half-feminine. I am whole.
But identity isn’t fixed—and neither is language. I remain open to the idea that there might be new words in the future that better describe who I am. Language is a tool for expression, not a cage.
Energetically and spiritually, I experience myself as something far more expansive. I am not half-masculine and half-feminine. I am whole. Some parts of me are tender, others fierce. Some logical, others intuitive. I contain multitudes.
As artist and writer Alok Vaid-Menon says:
"Gender is not just about identity. It’s also about expression, intention, and energy. And energy doesn’t have a gender."
That speaks to me.
I’m not confused about who I am—I just refuse to be reduced. That’s why “they” feels just as true as “he.”
“He” reflects how I walk through the physical world.
“They” holds everything else—my fluidity, my expansion, my spirit.
And honestly? If I could create a third pronoun, I would say: HE/THEY/ALL
“All” means I’m not just one thing—and neither are you. We are all evolving beings with infinite potential.
To me, identity isn’t about drawing borders—it’s about making space. It’s about being so fully ourselves that others feel safe to do the same.
Choosing He/They is a quiet rebellion against shrinking. It’s my way of saying:
“I will not reduce myself to fit into a box I never built.”
Gender isn’t a cage—it’s a canvas.
FUTURE
As we continue to evolve—culturally, cognitively, and spiritually—I imagine a world where even language begins to loosen its grip. Language, for all its power, is a set of signs and symbols—a scaffolding. It helps us build meaning, but it can also become a cage.
As Wittgenstein famously said:
“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”
Even our most progressive labels can begin to constrain us if we hold them too tightly. What if we didn’t need pronouns at all? What if we moved beyond the need to explain ourselves?
What if I could simply be known as “Troy”—not as a label, but as a living, evolving presence? A name that holds all of who I am, today and tomorrow. A name that doesn't reduce me to a category, but invites curiosity, complexity, and change.
This idea aligns with Jean-Paul Sartre’s belief that “existence precedes essence”—that we are not defined by what we are called, but by what we do, how we become, and who we continue to unfold into.
Imagine a future where we no longer rely on language to validate identity, but instead engage in a kind of radical presence. What if we could simply look each other in the eye and say:
“You exist. You are becoming. And that is enough.”
This future echoes ancient wisdom.
Many Indigenous languages are verb-based, describing people as actions, not nouns. In Zen Buddhism, there’s the concept of suchness—a reality seen directly, without labeling or conceptualizing.
Philosopher Rosi Braidotti speaks of nomadic subjectivity—identities that are always moving, never pinned down, always expanding. And that’s how I hope we’ll continue to grow: into selves that are not declared, but discovered.
To truly honor one another is to make space for the mystery—the parts not yet known, the layers still unfolding. We might then not only recognize one another without the crutch of language, but also honor each other’s right to transform.
Maybe, in that future, we won’t say, “Tell me who you are.”
We’ll step aside and say:
“Show me who you’re becoming.”
And that will be more than enough.
