lilylilac.com

There’s a special kind of absurdity in being pan, non‑binary, gender‑fluid and still getting treated like a perfectly normal cis person because my face, my body, my vibe apparently checks the “acceptable default human” box. It’s like walking around as a cryptid but everyone insists that I’m just a raccoon with good posture.

And the wildest part? The moment I say my name — Lily — people do that micro‑expression. That tiny flicker. That “oh… huh” face.

Not always judgment. Not confusion. Just the visible Windows‑XP loading bar of someone trying to reconcile “Lily” with whatever gender they decided I was five seconds ago.

It’s honestly hilarious. And exhausting. And deeply, stupidly human.

The Cis Veneer Is a Jump Scare

I don’t try to look cis. I don’t try to pass. I don’t try to be legible. I just… exist.

But the world loves a shortcut, and apparently my physical presentation triggers the “cisgender detected” speedrun. People look at me and immediately file me under binary default like they’re doing taxes.

Then I say my name and suddenly they’re doing emotional algebra.

You can see the gears turning:

• “Is Lily a nickname?”
• “Is Lily a girl name?”
• “Is Lily a boy name?”
• “Is Lily… okay?”

It’s like watching someone try to solve a Rubik’s cube that is also on fire.

The Feral Dissonance of Being Misread

Being misread isn’t just annoying, but it is surreal. I’ll be standing there, nails done, eyeliner sharp enough to commit a misdemeanor, wearing something that screams “gender is a suggestion,” and people still default to cis. It’s like my gender expression is a whole Broadway production and they’re watching it with noise‑canceling headphones on.

And when I correct them? When I say I’m non‑binary? When I say I’m pan? When I say my name?

They look at me like I just told them I’m a part‑time forest witch who moonlights as a cryptid consultant.

Which, honestly, fair.

The Looks I Get When I Say My Name

This deserves its own section because the looks are art.

There’s the polite reboot, where someone smiles too wide because their brain just blue‑screened.

There’s the micro‑squint, like they’re checking the subtitles for clarification.

There’s the ohhh face, the one that says, “I have updated your gender in my internal database but the patch notes are unclear.”

And then there’s my favorite: The ‘I will simply pretend nothing happened’ look.

That one is peak comedy. Peak chaos. Peak Florida.

The Identity That Refuses to Fit the Template

I’m not hiding. I’m not performing. I’m not trying to be mysterious.

I’m just not binary. I’m just not straight. I’m just not simple.

But the world keeps trying to shove me into a gender box that feels like a pair of jeans two sizes too small; technically wearable, but spiritually incorrect.

Identity invisibility isn’t about shame. It’s about being complex in a world that worships simplicity. It’s about being fluid in a world that wants you laminated. It’s about being Lily in a world that keeps trying to rename you without asking.

The Feral Truth

I don’t need strangers to understand me. But I do want them to stop assuming they already do.

I want my gender to be allowed to be weird. I want my queerness to be allowed to be loud. I want my name to be allowed to be mine. I want my identity to be allowed to exist without needing a PowerPoint.

I want to be seen instead of simplified.

And if that means confusing a few people along the way? If that means watching someone’s face do the emotional equivalent of a Windows error message when I say, “Hi, I’m Lily”? If that means being a little feral, a little chaotic, a little beautifully off‑script?

Good. Let them glitch.