From one trans athlete to another: Joy and liberation of top surgery

When Nikki Hiltz shared their top surgery story on Instagram in August, it wasn’t just another post scrolling past on my feed. It was a spark. Here was one of the fastest middle-distance runners in the world, fresh off the Olympic Games, talking about something that has reshaped my own life too.

“Since September [2024], I’ve been so happy in my body,” Nikki wrote. “I’ve noticed a change in my smile and posture too — I find myself holding my head just a little bit higher.”

That line hit me hardest. Because I know exactly what they mean.

When I rode in my first equestrian show after top surgery, everything was different. As I settled into rhythm with my horse, I rolled my shoulders back and let the air touch my chest freely. Each stride lifted something off me, a weight I hadn’t even realized I was still carrying. It wasn’t just about competing that day; it was about belonging. For the first time, I entered the riding ring certain I was there as my whole self.

That’s what Nikki’s words reminded me of: joy that isn’t loud or flashy, but rooted in the simple act of moving without hiding. The kind of joy that slips into the ordinary moments — buttoning a shirt, tying your shoes, running down a stretch of road — and makes them extraordinary because they’re finally yours.

Get off the sidelines and into the game

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A post shared by Nikki Hiltz (@nikkihiltz)

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Top surgery is often misunderstood as being just about the chest. But what Nikki captured, and what I’ve lived, is that it’s about so much more. It’s the photos where you finally recognize yourself smiling back. It’s the miles where you breathe deeper because there’s nothing constricting your lungs anymore. It’s the way you walk into a room, or step up to a start line with a posture that says, without words: I belong here.

It’s also about possibility. Before surgery, I sometimes carried hesitation into the things I loved, worrying about how others might see me, or whether my body would betray me in moments when I needed it most. Afterward, that hesitation slowly gave way to possibility: Could I run farther? Could I take up space more boldly? Could I speak without shrinking? Surgery didn’t magically erase doubt, but it cleared enough space for hope to grow.

And it’s about connection, too. When athletes like Nikki are open about their experiences, it creates bridges across distance and discipline. I may never run the times they do, but I recognize myself in their words. That recognition can be life-saving for someone younger, someone scrolling late at night and wondering if there’s a future where they’ll feel at home in their own body. Stories like Nikki’s, and like mine, prove that such futures are not only possible, they’re already happening.

I’m not saying surgery is for everyone, or that you need it to be valid as a trans person. Like Nikki, I’m not sharing this for validation. I’m sharing it because I want other trans athletes to know that joy is possible — that there is more to our stories than pain and politics.

The world will tell you otherwise. Politicians pass laws to ban our care. Commentators question our existence. Even teammates sometimes turn away. But none of them can ban the moment when you feel the ground move beneath you, the wind on your face, and the knowledge that your body is finally yours. None of them can legislate away trans joy.

Nikki ended their post with a call: “No matter what they do to our community, I’m going to keep on showing up and keep on shining and I hope you join me in doing the same.”

That’s what marathons have become for me — my way of showing up, of shining in my own small way. Every mile I run is both training and testimony. I’m proving, if only to myself, that I belong here: on the course, in this body, in this joy. Running long distances isn’t glamorous. There are blisters and sore legs, endless hours on the road. Life, too, is built in the unglamorous moments — the daily grind, the setbacks, the doubts. And yet that’s where joy takes root, in the steady persistence of showing up anyway.

Running has taught me that visibility is not only about being seen by others but also about seeing yourself clearly. In every race photo where I now recognize myself, in every training run where I catch my reflection in a store window and don’t flinch, I feel a quiet affirmation: this is me. That recognition is worth more than any medal or personal best. It’s a kind of victory that lasts far beyond finish lines.

So when I saw Nikki’s post, I felt seen. I felt less alone. And I felt reminded that no matter the backlash, trans athletes will keep moving forward. Because that’s what we do. We move, we show up, we shine, not because it’s easy, but because joy is worth defending. And every step, every stride, every breath in our own bodies is proof that we are still here.

Jay Robinson lives in Los Angeles, where he works as a Specialist in Lifesaving and Care in the kitten nursery at Best Friends Animal Society. He is a trans athlete who ran and completed his first marathon — the Los Angeles Marathon — on March 16. He was an equestrian athlete in college. He can be reached via email at jaykrobinson83@gmail.com

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