It’s a song that consistently evokes a powerful emotional response in me, a poignant reminder of a time when feelings were raw and unfiltered. Before the complexities of personal transformation fully unfolded, music held an almost unbearable weight. It might seem strange to recall now, but back then, the floodgates of emotion felt impenetrable. Many may not be familiar with “Here’s Where the Story Ends”, a track performed by Harriet Wheeler of The Sundays, her voice possessing an undeniably ethereal quality. The very title itself, “Here’s Where the Story Ends,” carries a profound sense of melancholy, resonating deeply with my experiences during a particularly transformative year. While I don’t presume the song is about my life specifically, the beauty of music lies in its ability to become personal, allowing listeners to claim its narrative as their own.
The first time I truly connected with this song was during a period marked by intense vulnerability. Following a series of deeply challenging events, my father made the difficult decision to halt chemotherapy treatment, choosing to let the aggressive cancer run its course. We all understood the implications. Simultaneously, my internal conflict was reaching its climax. There was no longer any space to hide within myself, the sanctuary of my inner world on the verge of being exposed. I, too, knew what this signified. It was the conclusion of numerous chapters, without the comforting certainty of what the next story held. My father’s life, a relationship of profound closeness, was nearing its end. The persona of “Michael” I had presented to the world was dissolving. The potential end of my marriage loomed, along with the unsettling possibility of losing family, friends, and professional stability. These were all narratives filled with love, hope, and light, yet they were drawing to a close. It’s incredibly challenging to look beyond the final page of a truly significant story.
The song, in its original context, speaks of a woman reflecting on a relationship built on flawed foundations, marked by mistakes and shame. It’s about learning to view a “terrible year” through the lens of bittersweet memory, allowing the passage of time to color the experience. While my situation wasn’t a direct parallel, the emotional core of the lyrics resonated deeply with my own journey. The night my father passed away, I played it repeatedly, using the haunting title, “Here’s Where the Story Ends,” as a conduit to release the overwhelming grief and sorrow, the tears flowing freely throughout the drive home. As the realization of my true identity dawned, the song became a constant companion. While not explicitly about being transgender, it became profoundly about transition, a distinction that felt incredibly close.
“People I know, places I go
Make me feel tongue tied.
I can see how people look down
They’re on the inside.
…
People I see, weary of me
Showing my good side.
I can see how, people look down
I’m on the outside.”
These lyrics capture a universal feeling of alienation, an experience many can relate to. As we reveal our inner selves to the world, we inevitably transition to a different kind of “outside.” We are no longer fully integrated with those who knew us in a previous guise. Presented in our authentic form, we become the subject of stares, averted gazes, and a sense of being looked down upon. The narrative where we moved unnoticed through the crowd, bathed in public approval, comes to an end, at least for a time. Many, even those closest to us, may misinterpret our profound personal shifts as acts of vanity or superficial desire, failing to grasp the deeper motivation: simply to exist authentically, without drawing undue attention.
“It’s that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore.”
There’s no escaping the remnants of these transformative experiences; they become ingrained within us. No matter how much we may wish to leave those difficult times behind, the impact remains. Like encountering a seashell from a memorable day long past, each time we stumble upon these “souvenirs” within our minds, triggered by some seemingly insignificant event, the pain resurfaces with surprising vividness. Many transgender individuals, my sisters and brothers in experience, exhibit subtle signs of transition-related emotional residue, and I suspect I am no exception.
“I know where I belong.
The only thing I ever really wanted to say
Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong.”
This lyric resonates with profound truth. How many of us find ourselves pouring out our hearts – online, in personal conversations, to large audiences or a single family member – desperately trying to articulate the essence of our experience? No elaborate description, no evocative analogy, no carefully crafted poem truly captures the depth of this feeling. The established vocabulary, rooted in cisgender perspectives, lacks the precise words and phrases to fully convey our meaning and intent. It’s not that we are completely silenced, but rather that we are attempting to build something monumental with inadequate tools. In this sense, “here’s where the story ends” for the conventional narrative, as we struggle to express a reality that existing language struggles to encompass.
“It’s that little souvenir of a colorful year
That makes me smile inside.
So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way
Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise. “
This final verse is perhaps the most powerful. It acknowledges the “terrible year,” yet reframes it as “colorful.” Amidst the fear and profound sadness, there was also the exhilarating awakening of self-discovery and understanding. The opportunity to confront what seemed like an insurmountable challenge, shadowed by loss and unexpected setbacks, ultimately led to a deeply rewarding personal transformation. A layer of cynicism may inevitably develop as we navigate the world, but perhaps this is an expected outcome for lives lived outside the ordinary. “Here’s where the story ends” for one chapter, but it is also precisely where a new, authentic life truly begins.
