Disclaimer:
This post contains high levels of emotional growth, buffet side-eye, and unsolicited opinions about scrambled eggs. May cause sudden urges to book a cruise, cry at the sight of a wake, or fist-pump in the name of self-love. Proceed accordingly.
My first cruise was five days long, the ship was tiny by today’s standards, and my wife and I had no idea what we were doing. We were wide-eyed, excited, and just a little nervous — the way you are when you step into something new and vaguely expensive. We started asking questions out loud like clueless dorks, and the couple in front of us turned around and said, “Is this your first cruise?”
They took us under their wing — a husband and wife who clearly had it all figured out — and walked us through everything from muster drills to buffet hacks. We’re still Facebook friends to this day. That was our first glimpse into cruise culture: kind, welcoming, and occasionally semi-drunk by noon.
It was also the first time we truly unplugged. Phones went on airplane mode and stayed that way. It was five glorious days of being untethered from the rest of the world, and we swore right then and there: never again unless it’s at least seven nights. I didn’t want to go back to reality — I wanted to live in this floating city with towel animals, daily entertainment, and the occasional guy in cargo shorts yelling “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHERE THE FRONT OF THE SHIP IS?” (Sir, I barely know where my room is. These hallways are a maze designed by an evil architect with a sense of humor.)
But it wasn’t until nearly three years ago — on Symphony of the Seas, standing at the aft of the ship watching the wake churn behind us — that something inside me finally broke free.
I turned to my wife and said the words out loud: “I am a trans woman.” And even though I was terrified, even though I knew deep down she’d support me, there was still a voice whispering, What if this changes everything?
Spoiler: It did. But not in the way I feared.
That moment — with the sea stretching out behind us and the water spinning like truth itself — was the beginning of everything. That cruise wasn’t just a trip; it was the first time I started dressing in clothes that hinted at who I was becoming. The next cruise? I packed fully as me. No compromise. No “safe” androgyny. Just Lexi, on purpose.
And here’s the thing about the ocean: it doesn’t care who you used to be. It just welcomes whoever you are when you arrive. No judgment. No baggage fees. No Ultimate Abyss attendant pulling out a scale when you insist you can ride but clearly shouldn’t. (Yes, that happened. No, I didn’t follow through. Yes, I have since made peace with gravity.)
Every cruise since has added another layer of healing. One formal night, someone complimented my shoes and it wasn’t about being trans or different — it was just about being fabulous. Another time, during the Love & Marriage show, a very confident lesbian referred to her girlfriend’s nipples as “pepperonis,” and I’m still laughing about it to this day.
I’ve cried at the sight of the wake. I’ve skipped scrambled eggs because, honestly, they were funky. I’ve discovered edamame, slayed formal night, and mourned the loss of Carnival’s chilled strawberry soup like it was a national tragedy. I’ve seen people at the buffet do things I wish I could unsee. I’ve side-eyed pool chair hogs with Olympic-level precision. I once went on a salsa-making excursion that also turned into salsa-dancing, which was unfortunate because I dance like a confused scarecrow with a timing issue.
Cruises became more than vacations. They became safe spaces. Mirrors. Time capsules. Portals into who I am when I’m not shrinking.
Because more than the chaos and cocktails, cruises give me something rare: moments where I stop and think, This is my life now. Not someone else’s. Not a borrowed fantasy. Mine. I get to live authentically, openly, joyfully. And I never forget how privileged that is.
(Also, real talk? Cruises are more accessible than most people think. You can book them up to two years in advance and treat them like vacation layaway. Peace doesn’t have to be out of reach — sometimes you just have to plan your joy.)
There’s one photo from the pre-transition days that still sits deep in my heart — silly props, big smiles, pure laughter. We don’t share those anymore, but I hold the memory close. It reminds me how far I’ve come. These days, my favorite snapshots aren’t taken by a cruise photographer. They’re internal: me standing on the aft deck, wind in my face, no filter needed.
And through all of it — through every silly mishap, fabulous outfit, and buffet line decision — my wife is right there beside me, reminding me daily that I am loved, worthy, and celebrated. That’s the kind of anchor no ship can match.
Oh, and to the people who treat cruise staff like they’re beneath them? Tip better. Be better. The crew is working their asses off while you’re demanding extra ice in your tenth free lemonade. If you act like the world revolves around you at sea, you’re probably unbearable on land.
Closet couldn’t hold her. Now she’s got balcony views, bold lipstick, and the audacity to love herself out loud.
And now, with one cruise just a memory and another on the horizon, I find myself doing something I never thought I would: writing love letters to cruise ships. Because this next one? It’s special. A new ship. A new line. A new chapter. So yes — I’m that girl, and I have something to say.
Dear Celebrity Beyond,
I’m not coming aboard to escape. I’m coming to arrive. Fully. Authentically. Dressed to the nines and finally packing the right clothes.
This is our first date, you and me, and I have high expectations — but I think we’re going to get along just fine. I’ll bring the sass and the sundresses. You bring the stillness, the sunsets, and the space to just be.
See you in September.
—Lexi
MY FAVORITE VIEW!!!!
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