Our Story - Finding My Authentic Self: A Journey of Identity and Love

Last updated: 16-Apr-25@01:10 Central Winnipeg time.

From a young age, I knew I was different. At seven years old, I sat in my first therapist's office, a place I revisited because I didn't fit the mold of what a boy was supposed to be. My childhood was filled with toys traditionally meant for girls – dolls, coffee sets, and toy hair dryers were my favorites. In kindergarten and elementary school, my closest companions were girls, and I naturally gravitated towards their games and activities. Unlike some who identify differently, I never had the urge to wear women's clothing or put on makeup. My connection to the feminine was deeper, a fundamental alignment with women and their world. I never felt any connection to typical male pursuits. My voice was naturally high-pitched, and my appearance often led people to mistake me for a girl. This feminine inclination was never rooted in sexuality; in fact, sexuality, in general, was absent from my understanding of the world. I felt no sexual attraction to anyone, male or female.

This childhood experience even led to a nickname, albeit one I disliked intensely: Mr. Seven. The number seven became a symbol of being different, a label I carried with discomfort.

- Sara Mays -

At that same age of seven, my appearance further solidified this perception of me as a girl. With silky hair framing my cheeks and a voice so high and sweet, people we met – from my parents' friends to acquaintances at the swimming club – naturally assumed I was a cute little girl. Girl pronouns were the norm when referring to me. My father, in a humorous attempt to correct these assumptions, would sometimes playfully drop my pants to reveal I was a boy. During our numerous trips to Japan, where many of my father's colleagues were based, I was often called "princess" due to my appearance. The Japanese word for princess, when translated to English, included an example sentence with the name "Sarah." While the pronunciation of the Japanese word for princess wasn't quite "Sara," my seven-year-old self, presented with the choice between the actual word for princess and the one that sounded like "Sara" (セラ or サラ in Katakana), instinctively chose the latter. And so, "Sara セラ" became my name in the eyes of my father's Japanese colleagues, a joyful greeting I received whenever they saw me.

Despite these external affirmations of my feminine presentation, I was constantly told to be more masculine, to play with boys and engage in "boy" activities. This felt impossible. To avoid disappointing my loved ones, I retreated into myself, choosing solitude over forced interactions. My teachers noticed my isolation, which ultimately led to my initial therapy sessions as "Mr. Seven." Growing up in Kuwait, a culture with limited acceptance for femininity in boys, amplified these challenges. Fortunately, my father's investments in Canada led our family to migrate to Montreal in the 1980s, where we became Canadian citizens. I went through high school, college, and university in Montreal, a world away from the cultural constraints of my early childhood.

As I navigated my teenage years, a unique aspect of my identity became increasingly clear: I was asexual. It was common knowledge among my college friends that I experienced no sexual attraction to anyone.

During high school, I met Kissra, who would become my soulmate and life partner. She was a Jewish lesbian, born and raised in Montreal. On the surface, our backgrounds couldn't have been more different. We literally had nothing in common except for two significant factors: we both came from wealthy, well-educated, and well-traveled families, and we were both considered the "black sheep" within those families. Beyond our shared privileged backgrounds and rebellious spirits, we were complete opposites.

Kissra would often ask me to drive her to see her girlfriends. She felt the need to present an image of dating a guy. I, on the other hand, needed to show my family that I had a "female" girlfriend. This led to an intricate arrangement, almost like a business deal, between us. But as the college years passed, something unexpected happened: a deep, non-sexual love grew between us, a genuine caring rooted in the shared pain we were both experiencing at the time.

Our families, while perhaps aware of the true nature of our relationship, embraced us publicly due to the social image it presented within our communities. They envisioned a traditional future for us, with shared interests and the expectation of "playing house." My father adored Kissra, treating her like a daughter and showering her with affection and gifts. Our families visited each other, eagerly anticipating our wedding plans, with all expenses paid and full financial backing. However, neither Kissra nor I desired a conventional marriage or children. When the time for marriage approached, we made the difficult decision to step away from the family's financial and corporate support and forge our own path to live authentically.

This decision marked the beginning of what felt like "World War 3." The unspoken agreement was that whatever we chose to do, we needed to keep it discreet. We soon began to experience a stifling pressure, a consequence of our privileged background where different rules applied outside the norms of society. In essence, any job tied to a payroll would be noticed and sabotaged by this unseen force I've come to call the "stifling-squad." We could only hold onto average jobs for a few months before being forced to move on.

Our solution came in an unexpected form: the adult industry, specifically porn. Kissra saw this as a way to break free from the grip of the stifling-squad, and surprisingly, it worked. A few years later, I joined her. We were earning an average of $20,000 per month for about eight years in Montreal. During those early years of the internet, porn was relatively new and highly taboo, and models were scarce, giving us a significant advantage. However, our fear that the stifling-squad would eventually find a way to undermine our "adult empire" came true. But not before we were introduced to wealthy and influential individuals who appreciated our work and introduced us to the underground fetish world.

The underground fetish world, despite its name, wasn't shady at all. It was a private club for the affluent, ensuring privacy, safety, and adherence to strict rules. This led to the creation of "the subservients." Kissra delved into the Dominetrix slave dynamics, while I continued in mainstream porn, exclusively working with cisgender women.

It was through the adult industry that we met our other soulmates, Kate and Angie. I will refrain from sharing too much about them at this time to protect them from any unnecessary difficulties.

Everything we did was legal, high-class, and financially rewarding. However, the nature of the adult industry, coupled with our queerness, compounded the efforts of the stifling-squad. They found a way to attack us legally, targeting our bank accounts and assets. This forced us to leave Montreal, despite our strong connections, and head to Vancouver. With the support of our extended family within the subservients club, I was able to find employment in programming in British Columbia.

To resolve the unwinnable legal battles with the stifling-squad, we made a deal. We agreed to leave the adult industry and keep our gender identities private in exchange for the dismissal of the legal action. However, this didn't solve our fundamental problem of being unable to hold traditional employment due to the stifling-squad's interference. We needed a new strategy.

We decided to diversify our income while maintaining a low profile. The subservients (our extended family) were instrumental in this. Knowing that every major corporate entity in Montreal was somehow connected to the stifling-squad, we decided to leave everything behind and drive the company car to Vancouver. During our journey, Kissra fell in love with the simplicity of Winnipeg. When we arrived in 2011, compared to the fast-paced corporate environment of Montreal, Winnipeg felt like a simple, almost rural village with non-corporate, straightforward people. We chose to stay, seeking refuge from the metropolitan hustle.

From our arrival in Winnipeg in 2011 until April 2024, we lived in a constant state of survival mode. We didn't socialize much in Winnipeg, spending most of our time in Toronto with our significant extended family there. Winnipeg became our quiet base, a place to work and sleep.

April 2024 marked a turning point. I could no longer endure our muted existence and felt a desperate need to live authentically, even if it meant risking everything. Kissra, though concerned, stood by my side, and we both decided it was time to embrace the lives we deserved. In May 2025, I started hormone therapy and publicly began my transition. As expected, this didn't go smoothly, and the stifling-squad retaliated with a vengeance. Since then, we have been fighting an invisible war, incredibly difficult to explain to the average person, but we are finally living the life we choose. We no longer have to hide or keep a low profile. We no longer feel compelled to support the ideologies of the corporate elites who dictate societal norms, and we no longer question whether we should live authentically or wait for a more opportune time. It's an immense relief.

Our polyamorous family also underwent a significant change when we decided to leave Montreal. Kate returned to her family, Angie stayed at our place, and Kissra came with me. The initial plan was to establish ourselves in British Columbia and then reunite. While that specific plan didn't materialize, we maintained almost daily contact via video calls and saw each other during summers in Toronto. All four of us remained committed to each other, a testament to our unique bond.

From May 2024 to the present, we have been navigating the complexities of the LGBTQ+ community. Between Kissra and myself, we manage multiple social media accounts and sixteen websites. Much of the content on these platforms was shaped by the societal norms we came from, reflecting those views to minimize conflict. Now, as we fully embrace our LGBTQ+ identities, we are essentially starting from scratch, learning the nuances and updating our extensive online presence to reflect our authentic lives. This has unfortunately led to unintended friction with some queer individuals who are perplexed by our lack of foundational knowledge and understanding of community norms. Many of the people we've encountered have shown little patience or willingness to teach us. Once again, we find ourselves somewhat isolated. However, we are living the authentic life we choose, and that, in itself, is a profound victory.