During these events, I finally understood that I could no longer and do not want to live in Russia. Meanwhile, there have been enough events in my city that have shown that it will only get worse. As much as I loved St. Petersburg, I realised that I couldn’t stay there any longer. Thanks to my partner, I organised the relocation within six months.

She helped me find a job to tide me over. I taught languages to resettlers in a volunteer organisation.

We got to know each other around the events of Maidan. I started to read up on the events, to worry about her. She told me about life in Kharkiv, which helped solidify my desire to move.

Kharkiv started for me from the centre because during my visits my partner wanted to show me the city from its most beautiful side. And when I finally moved, the architecture in the centre of Kharkiv reminded me of St. Petersburg in many ways. It became a kind of replacement therapy. Sometimes I especially come to the courtyards housings to reminisce about St Petersburg.

Another iconic place is Rymarskaya Street, where the Migration Service is located, which is hard to forget because of its yearly reminders. I want to obtain Ukrainian citizenship, break all legal ties with Russia, and start the procedure of gender recognition here. Anyway, it is no longer my safest idea to return to Russia.

It’s very similar to the metaphor of separation from a large toxic parent.

I come from the town of Velikie Luki in Pskov Oblast, where my father is from. My mother was born in St. Petersburg. My parents are divorced, so I lived almost all of my childhood in two cities until I entered boarding school. This is where my permanent residence in St. Petersburg began.

My father disappeared from my life when I was six years old. When he did appear, it never boded well. I practically do not include him in my life and keep in touch only with my mother. She also helped me with the move. Now we’re talking via video. Our cats are also an important part of the family.

I always had a close and trusting relationship with my mother. We are very much alike, and for a long time, we held on to each other because both she and I had some difficulties integrating into society. We have a lot of common views and behaviour patterns. Of course, there are conflicts and misunderstandings, but our bond remains strong.

When she found out about my relationship with my partner and thought I was a homosexual girl, she took it calmly.

I recently told her about my transgender identity. She took this coming out well, too. We are now in the discussion phase. She asks me questions, expresses interest and I answer.

I did not feel the need to think about my gender identity until I was a teenager. I was raised in a gender-neutral manner. I did not feel any restrictions.

I had to start figuring myself out at the age of fifteen when I entered the boarding school. It was a gendered space. Boys and girls lived apart, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable about it. Instead, I had an interest in research and started asking questions. How do I fit into this society? What role to choose? I internally agreed that I was perceived as a girl and accepted the role. If so, why not give it a try? It was a phase of my hyper-femininity.

When I realised that this was not just a role, but a constant perception of me, new doubts emerged. At the same school, I met the group with non-conforming people. This is how I learned that the gender framework could be more flexible; it can be edited and thought about. I started thinking about my discomfort and tried to define its source.

But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how liberated I was, I was getting worse. I knew that it wasn’t about me.

My self-awareness process was stretched out for several years. It wasn’t until twenty-one that I started dressing in masculine clothing that I first felt that my expression matched the inner image of myself.

For me, a legal transition is a priority right now. Still, I understand that without medical intervention, I will not get to it. I’m lucky not to have body dysphoria. I’m much more concerned about social aspects.

Perhaps if I had faced normalisation earlier, it would now have had other consequences. At home, I was accepted unconditionally. I never suffered because I wasn’t handsome enough or that I didn’t conform to any conventions. As a child, there was enough tactile contact. I knew I could come and hug my mother. I could have expected her to come and hug me.

Home has always been a safe place for me to quietly rethink what is happening to me, share something, ask for advice or support.

In my relationship, distance is essential to me. It also has to do with trust: you can be open, but you have the right to keep something to yourself, not show it. And no one will invade your personal space.

There is a lot of peace and spontaneity between us: we like to take walks, these walks often happen with a certain amount of surprise. I am glad that we match up so much in our desires. Spontaneity helps me to feel the fullness of being, to be impressed by something, whether it’s the beauty of the city or communicating with nature.

I want my different identities to be respected in society. On the one hand, I’m a trans*masculine person, on the other, an immigrant. I belong to Jewish culture, and also I have a connection to paganism. I’m a scientist, researcher, activist and volunteer. In each of these contexts, some of my identities can be stigmatized or tabooed.

But the complexity of the human personality is that it cannot be divided into black and white, there are always many conditions and shades. An approach that considers different contexts that are intertwined in one person is called intersectional.