There is a specific kind of silence that exists only in two places: in the five seconds before a theater curtain rises, and in the heartbeat after a Dungeon Master says, “Roll for initiative.”

It’s a vacuum. A held breath. It’s the moment where reality stops being the thing we’re stuck with and starts being the thing we’re making.

When I was asked to write for Week 2 of this series—focusing on joys that have nothing to do with the "trans" label—I realized that my entire life is essentially a collection of scripts, rulebooks, and dog-eared paperbacks. If you stripped away every social label I carry, you’d find a person who just really, deeply wants to know what’s behind the next door in a dungeon or how to hit the perfect lighting cue for a dramatic monologue.

Let’s talk about the DM screen. To some, it’s a barrier. To me, it’s a cockpit.

There is a unique, frantic joy in being a Dungeon Master that I don’t think any other hobby quite captures. It’s the ultimate exercise in controlled chaos. I spend hours—sometimes days—obsessing over the political lineage of a city-state or the specific elemental resistance of a boss monster, only for my players to spend forty-five minutes trying to befriend a sentient door.

And I love it.

The joy of D&D, for me, isn't about the math or the "winning." It’s about the collaborative spark. As a DM, I am the narrator, the villain, the shopkeeper, and the physics engine. I get to provide the canvas, but the players bring the paint. There is an incredible, non-binary-coded power in being the one who says, "Yes, and..." to a ridiculous plan. When a player rolls a Natural 20 on a desperate, last-ditch effort, and the whole table erupts in a shout that probably annoys the neighbors? That’s the good stuff. It’s a reminder that we are all capable of creating legends out of thin air and some plastic dice.

My love for D&D is really just an extension of my life in the theatre. People often ask if I prefer being on stage or backstage, and my answer is usually a frantic "Yes."

When I’m under the lights, there’s that electric vulnerability. You are a vessel for a story. You’re worrying about your breath support, your blocking, and whether or not the person in the front row is actually asleep. But when a scene "clicks"—when the timing is so sharp you can feel the audience leaning in—it’s like flying.

But then, there’s the tech side. The "Backstage Wizardry." There is a very specific, grounded satisfaction in the smell of sawdust and spray paint. I love the puzzles of technical theatre: How do we make this look like a 1920s parlor on a $50 budget? How do I cue the lightning strike so it hits exactly on the word 'betrayal'?

Being "both" in theatre means I see the stitches. I know how the illusion is built, which somehow makes the final performance feel even more magical. It’s about the team—the actors, the stagehands, the lighting techs—all moving in a choreographed dance to make someone believe, just for two hours, that they aren't in a high school auditorium or a community playhouse. 

If D&D is a loud, messy party and Theatre is a high-stakes performance, then Reading is my recovery.

I am a Sci-Fi and Fantasy junkie through and through. There is something about a "Secondary World" that feels more like home than the real one sometimes. Give me a space opera with complex orbital mechanics or a high-fantasy epic with a magic system that has more rules than my taxes. 

Reading is where I recharge my creative batteries. It’s the "inhalation" to the "exhalation" of DMing and Acting. When I’m lost in a book, I’m not thinking about my day-to-day life. I’m thinking about the logistics of a generation ship or the cultural taboos of a dragon-riding society. It’s a reminder that the human imagination is infinite. We can dream up worlds where the sun never sets or where shadows have voices, and we can share those dreams with each other across centuries just by putting ink on paper.

The beauty of these hobbies—the dice, the scripts, the books—is that they don't care about my "journey" or my "transition." They care about my curiosity.

In the theatre, the character cares about their motivation. At the D&D table, the party cares about my Armor Class. In a book, the protagonist just needs me to keep turning the page.

I am a person who loves the "What If?" of the world. I am a person who finds peace in a well-timed spotlight and excitement in a d20 roll. Being trans is a part of who I am, sure, but being a storyteller? That’s who I’ve always been.