I’ve been dealing with harassment again, at my new job—another bully in a long line running parallel to an equally long line of past jobs.

It never stops hurting, but I’ve learned to recognize it for what it is: emotional immaturity, arrested development, and unresolved trauma spilling over as misplaced rage. I don’t know why I’m always the target, but I’ve stopped blaming myself for it.

The difference this time is that, for the first time ever, someone actually had my back. Multiple coworkers stepped in before things went too far, showed solidarity, and even helped me finish work I’d been forced into by the abuser. Others quietly let me know they see what’s happening. They see me.

What floored me most was when one guy—who has, up until this point always been tough to befriend—broke character. He’s not cruel exactly, more like a low-level antagonist who ribs new hires since most don’t last long. He never lets people in. So when he stopped me, looked me in the eye, and told me I’d been “crushing it,” it wasn’t pity or politeness. It meant he actually saw me—not just for surviving abuse or doing the work, but for the potential he sees in me. That shift, coming from someone who had never been genuine before, meant everything.

And then another coworker who is kind of a clown, a funny-man, interrupted my exterior monologue while I was working. When I caught myself making a mistake, naturally called it out “‘M’such a fuckin’ moron” he interjects with “Hey!” loud enough to stop me in my tracks, “No you’re not. Got it?” I remember a quick beat passing before I choke out a meek-sounding “yeah.” I cleared my throat and promptly thanked him.

After being micromanaged by my newest harasser telling me I was doing nearly everything wrong, hearing that broke me. Well, of course it did, I don’t even get that kind of overt and direct support from my own family (or any RL friend I’ve had in the past). I thanked him and immediately took my break so I could ugly cry in peace—because it was the first real outpouring of support I’ve ever had at a job or at any point in my life that I can recall.

As much as the harassment wears me down, that solidarity was unexpected, and it gave me a spark of hope I thought I’d lost. Maybe my emotions are heightened from HRT, but this was a momentous display of kindness. It reminded me that my existence has value—that I’m worthy of being protected from harm. That support means so much to me, now more than ever, in a climate where the transgender community is constantly targeted by legislation and discrimination. Aside from paying the embarrassingly best wages I’ve ever experienced, a liberal arts college is likely one of the safest places someone like me can ever hope to be employed and I’d hate to have to endure another bully that would eventually find a way to get rid of me. Thankfully that’s not as much of a concern when I’ve got emotionally mature (and aware) allies.

I’m sharing this because my art has slowed, and I don’t want silence to be mistaken for absence. I’m still here, still creating, just carrying some heavy weight. The kindness of a few people at work reminded me that I’m not invisible—and that reminder is what’s keeping me going while I find my balance again.