There's no other word I love and loathe more than "outgrow."

Outgrowing your current style, yes. Outgrowing your clothes, not really. Outgrowing certain foods you love (i.e., pizza, ice cream, candy), begrudgingly, yes. Outgrowing social habits, perhaps, maybe. But outgrowing friends?

"You know you're outgrowing your friends, right?" this guy (let's call him Frank) told me on Sunday morning. We were enjoying coffee in bed, listening to a chill jazz playlist, messaging our mothers to wish them a happy Mother's Day, and figuring out our plans with family members. He was texting his mom while I called mine. He overheard my conversation – hard to, as it was on speakerphone – and she briefly asked about a social media post I had made on Friday night. After going out that night to a venue I hadn't been to in years and being verbally accosted, it was a reminder that I'm frankly over going to certain places. Over gritting my teeth and bearing it so I can spend time with friends.

​That moment, as brief as it was, completely ruined the rest of my night. And, days later, it was still on my mind. With good reason, as just a few weeks earlier, I was physically assaulted in a place I often felt uncomfortable in. The "who does she think she is" glares as I walked in confidently in heels and dressed more for a cocktail party than a dive bar, where you may leave with a man you'll regret and certainly with the odor of old frying oil. (Yes, they fry food in a mini fryer right at the bar.) It honestly felt no different at the venue I went to, save for the fact that it was a gay bar. Perhaps the feeling came because I was one of many non-white queer folks who spoke out negatively about my experience at the white-owned establishment. It may have something to do with my stance on paying to enter any venue or, perhaps, the grave irritation of being dressed down by someone who still dresses like an extra on Glee.

The post wasn't just something made under the influence of cosmos and gin & tonics. The post was releasing what I've held back for so long: that I have outgrown certain spaces that no longer serve me. I am outgrowing certain activities that I once relished. That I was grieving the close of one chapter of myself as I was walking into the start of a new one. It felt as if growth and loss were both sitting at the dining table with me as we looked back on the past ten years of my life. The nights of carousing, performing in my drag persona, cosplaying as a DJ, rediscovering my true self, and starting my medical and social transition at 30. Old friends are growing distant, while new friendships are forming over the years. Hell, even longtime enemies are mending things for the better, and, sadly, longtime friends are becoming enemies. But through it all, I want certain things in my life because they feel tethered to a version of my life and community in which I felt safe and at ease. No more true than in the bonds of trans sisterhood formed over the years. Even when I know running amok the night before would result in me moaning and groaning, tossing and turning in bed or on the couch the following day. And how one night, however fleeting, can impact not just a day but the rest of my week, be it researching and writing essays, working out, and even meditation.

Just a sliver of how self-sabotage has shown up in the past decade. As I've constantly outgrown certain spaces – social and professional – self-sabotage has evolved into activities that, while not entirely dangerous, are disruptive to the professional focus and standard routines I've built over the years. But what if that same sabotage is evolving (outgrowing?) into something different? What if these moments of self-sabotage are, in fact, moments to reinforce the need for self-protection? The constant pattern of navigating into certain spaces that feel wrong, only to pull the emergency brake when something has happened. Not to say that I walked into one bar with the intent of being assaulted, or walked into the other with the intention of being the target of a snarky but aging twink. But tuning in to my body or mind further before one of the other catches up. Those spidey-tingling senses, or that feeling in my gut, isn't just some random feeling, but a silent alarm ringing, telling me to head out the door. And, to be honest, both were ringing at both junctures.

Which brings me back to what Frank told me in bed on Sunday: have I outgrown my friends? There are some I've removed from my life: friends who intentionally shared transphobic content, me asking them to please stop as they're entirely misinformed, only for them to continue doing so. Acquaintances that I thought could become friends, only to see them act aggressively when there's a guy around. Or friends who watched me blossom over the years, only for them to try to damage my petals. But for those who remain, no, I don't believe I've outgrown them. I've just outgrown performing around them.

Let's be clear: none of my friends has asked or expected me to perform for them. The art of performing as an intermediary – a peace envoy – emerged as a child, be it between divorcing parents or familial factions. It's something instilled in me that has evolved into performing for the individuals who would enter my life. Performance usually shows up as trodding along to a sports bar or dive bar when I'd prefer to sit at a cocktail lounge or a swanky hotel bar. (To be fair, there are a few bars that I've forced them to learn how to make a cocktail, and the rapport has been phenomenal.) Performance looks like I enjoy standing in stilettos in a crowded bar with music blaring, even though I'd prefer to sit and not have to shout over it. Performance has shown up as barhopping, taking shots, bringing home trade, or finding one on Grindr, if not ending the night watching Bob's Burgers and ordering a few from Uber Eats. When, in fact, a nice evening meal, catching up with friends, and maybe a drink or two after, sounds ideal. None of these experiences is more or less valid than others, but some preferences are mine and mine alone.

Though, to be honest, I can't remember a time I've asked my friends if they'd like to do something other than go out drinking. Like grabbing dinner after a long workweek, or brunch on the weekend, as we chat about how our lives are moving and gossip about the men we're seeing. Perhaps this outgrowing dilemma – my friend-lemma? – isn't about whether I've outgrown friends, but if those friends would reject those options and, by extension, me. But my heart says, there won't be rejections. At least not all the time (I mean, weekly brunches and dinners? In this economy?!)

One thing is certain: the need to outgrow our past selves, embrace what the future holds for us, and celebrate what's to come for each other. Untethering oneself from a certain period of one's life that felt safe and reassuring. There will still be moments of carousing, reveling, and regrets the following day for sure. But letting go of that moment where I felt the safest and most secure is nothing to fear. I've outgrown fashion choices, makeup techniques, and even apartments. I can and certainly will outgrow feeling safe and secure in one moment in my life for something even safer and more secure in the years to come.

Hopefully, with much less pain in my feet after standing in stilettos all night.

And maybe that's the quiet revelation in all of this. Outgrowing isn't abandonment. It's not betrayal. It isn't even a loss, at least not entirely. It's the exhale after holding your breath for too long in a room that was never quite yours. If there's one thing I'm carrying into my 40th chapter, it's this: I refuse to perform comfort I don't feel around certain people and in certain places that constantly feel and act unwelcoming. And that's okay. The friends worth keeping will find you in the new room. The spaces worth returning to will earn it. And the ones who don't? They were always just background characters in the chapter of my life, not part of the whole story.

So here's to writing what comes next – seated, comfortable, cocktail in hand, and exactly where I'm supposed to be.