The Workday You See vs. The One You Don’t

8:45 a.m. She walks into the office, coffee in hand, rehearsing a smile in the elevator’s reflection. It’s the same routine every morning, straighten the shirt, fix the collar, check the voice. “Good morning!” echoes a bit too high, or maybe too soft. She’s never quite sure anymore. Across the hall, a teammate notices her usual quiet nod. “Always so polite,” he thinks, sipping his own coffee. He’s never seen her join the chatter near the coffee machine. He assumes she’s just introverted, one of those people who prefer silence over small talk. He once noticed her pause a little longer at the elevator mirror, almost as if she was measuring how much of herself to show that day.

10:30 a.m.

The team huddles for a quick brainstorm. “Hey, we’ll need volunteers to represent us for the client meeting next week,” someone says. Her stomach tightens. Client meetings mean introductions, introductions mean name tags, and those name tags still print the name she’s been trying to change. A name that feels foreign every time it’s spoken aloud. As the team laughs and exchanges banter, she quietly avoids eye contact, pretending to type. Her email signature doesn’t match her identity, but changing it would mean explaining — and she’s not ready for the questions that would follow. The teammate glances over. She seems distracted. “Probably not a morning person,” he jokes quietly. Still, something about her hesitation when she hears her own name makes him pause, like the sound doesn’t quite belong to her.

12:00 p.m.

She heads to the restroom, pauses at the door. It’s a small, ordinary act for everyone else, but for her, it’s a daily calculation. Which door feels safer today? Which space won’t make someone stare, or question, or whisper? She waits until it’s empty, washes her hands quickly, and leaves before anyone else walks in. Back at her desk, she exhales silently, pretending nothing happened. He once saw her returning from the restroom, shoulders slightly tense, as if she had just walked through something heavier than walls.

1:00 p.m.

Lunch break. She eats alone in the corner of the cafeteria, scrolling through photos of trans creators and friends online, people who look comfortable in their skin. For a moment, it feels like breathing fresh air through a narrow window. Then, the screen locks, and she’s back in the buzz of conversations she can’t join. The teammate waves in passing, doesn’t stop. “She seems a bit distant lately,” he notes mentally, returning to his group’s laughter about weekend plans. He catches a glimpse of her phone wallpaper, a phrase that reads, “Becoming me.” He smiles, not really understanding what it means.

2:45 p.m.

A meeting invite pops up. A mandatory “ID verification” update for all employees. Her heart sinks. The HR database still holds her old photo, old name, old gender marker. She’s sent three requests to change it, but the system says updates pending management approval. Every time a new hire joins and the email list goes around, that old name flashes up again. She minimizes the window, hoping no one notices. He once caught a glimpse of that old ID during a presentation, the picture didn’t quite look like her. He shrugged it off, assuming it was an old photo.

3:15 p.m.

The meeting runs long. Someone compliments her “professional look.” The words land like pins, polite, well-meaning, yet sharp enough to remind her how carefully every shirt, every word, every gesture is chosen to avoid questions she isn’t ready to answer. Her voice, too, feels rehearsed, too high? too low? too careful? She catches herself overthinking before she even speaks. The teammate nods in agreement, smiling at the compliment. “See, she’s fitting in just fine,” he thinks. Still, he sometimes wonders why she flinches slightly when someone says “ma’am” or “miss.”

4:45 p.m.

A casual team conversation turns to dating and “types.” Someone jokes about “guessing who’s straight, who’s not.” She laughs softly, eyes on her notebook, her silence mistaken for shyness. Inside, she feels a familiar ache, the weight of invisibility, of living in parentheses. He notices her laugh, gentle but distant and senses she’s somewhere else entirely.

6:00 p.m.

Laptop closed, she sits for a moment before leaving. It’s not the work that exhausts her, it’s the performance. The constant act of existing in a version the world expects to see. As she heads home, she wonders what it would feel like to show up as herself, without the armour, without the fear, without the constant self-editing. Later that night, the teammate scrolls through LinkedIn and pauses at a post for Transgender Awareness Week. It talks about gender dysphoria, the quiet, persistent ache of living in a body, name, and system that don’t reflect who you are. He reads, and for the first time, the puzzle pieces of his colleague’s quietness, hesitation, and exhaustion fall into place. He wishes he had noticed differently, not just what was visible, but what was unspoken.

This Transgender Awareness Week, let’s remember:

Not everyone’s story is visible. Not everyone has the safety or space to be open. But each of us can make workplaces where being seen and being safe mean the same thing. Start with curiosity. Lead with respect. Create belonging.