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Some MAPs have a strong concept of themselves as a child, which takes various forms. Someone identifying as transage explains how it feels. There's a sour kind of grief in aging out of yourself. People always talk about puberty like it’s this rite of passage, or some kind of beautiful transformation, like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.
But for me? For me, it felt like I was dying.
Every hair I grew, every inch taller I got, every line that sharpened was another betrayal. I didn’t want stubble or shoulders that widened. Every step further from childhood was just another small death.
It's hard, explaining what it means to be transage. People assume it's age regression, or trauma, or fantasy. Or they’ll think you’re just a predator trying to get with children, even though most transage people aren’t MAPs, and of those that are, most are anti-contact and we agree that things like consent should be based on our chronological ages.
But this isn’t about the assumptions of people who don’t experience this. Really, it’s far more complex than all of that. Age dysphoria is a real thing, and it’s every bit as distressing as gender dysphoria. I can’t even look in a mirror because the person who stares back is not me. And it makes me suicidal to see a grown person reflected back at me when I know—I know—I can never live in the body I’m supposed to have.
I don’t look like a kid anymore. But I still am one. Emotionally, psychologically, socially. I crave the gentleness, the structure, and the simplicity of being small. I want to wear cartoon-print underwear and oversized shirts. I want to curl up in someone’s lap, have someone ruffle my hair, tell me I’m a good kid. It’s not just age regression, it’s not just playing pretend. It’s who I am.
I perform adulthood. I pay taxes. I go to work. I do what I have to do to stay alive. I wear the costume and play my part, but that’s all it is. A role. I still wear little kid clothes when I’m alone. I still read middle-grade and YA books not just for comfort, but also because they match my inner world. I still feel safest when someone talks to me like I’m young, because that’s when I finally feel seen. I don’t want to go back. I want to be allowed to be who I am now.
I’m not pretending to be a child. I’m pretending to be an adult.
I wasn’t made for the pressures and pace of adulthood. I wasn’t made for dating apps, for networking events, for shaving my face. I was made to hold someone’s hand when I cross the street. To sit cross-legged on the floor with crayons. To be tucked in. Sometimes I wonder if people would hate me less if I just called it “inner child work” or framed it like therapy. But that would be a lie.
People will call it delusion. Infantilization. Perversion. I’ve heard it all. But transage is not about sex. It’s not about fantasy. It’s about identity. About truth. About walking around in a world that demands you be something you’re not and finally having the language to say: this isn’t me.
I’m not a fantasy.
I’m not a danger.
I’m not confused.
I’m just a kid, still waiting to be allowed to exist.
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